Amid the rippling
galaxies
of white clover, spiraling
out on a
kelly green lawn
where here
and there, a few robins
go gliding,
sheathed in silence
through the
yawn of late day,
on a small blanket
littered
with the glad aftermath
of kool-aid and
cold chicken—
a drowsy ten-year-old,
Raul maybe,
hugs
and nestles
closer, and keeps hugging
his short plump abuela,
who murmurs
some soft string
of lullaby lyrics
he doesn't understand,
but which probably
translate
roughly, to—
it's true,
there's no such thing
as heaven,
and if God exists,
he is not
great. No, he isn't
great at all—
but some days, he
sure knows
how to give it
a shot.
