The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2009

Reflection, 3 a.m.

The way the blue glow of a streetlamp

limned the blinds in my son’s bedroom

where I’d stumbled half-awake to answer

his high-pitched cry from a fevered dream

and lying beside him on the narrow bed,

the way his feet burrowed like roots

into the lap they once pushed against

when he first wobbled upright,

brought back those late afternoons

napping with my father, curtains drawn

to the green breath of trees,

thin light combed by blades of palm.

The way I hooked my ankle

to my father’s leg so he wouldn’t slip

away to his desk, his weekend chores,

believing a small foot sufficient

to anchor us, an axle on which

the vast afternoon slowly turned.

Angela Narcisco Torres