The Ofi Press Magazine

Poem by Terri Kirby Erickson (USA)

Published in The Ofi Press issue 50

Angel

I used to see them walking, a middle-aged

man and his grown son, both wearing brown

trousers and white shirts like boys in a club,

or guys who like to simplify. But anyone

could see the son would never be a man who

walked without a hand to hold, a voice telling

him what to do. So the father held his son's

hand and whispered whatever it was the boy

needed to know, in tones so soft and low it

might have been the sound of wings pressing

together again and again. Maybe it was that

sound, since the father had the look of an angel

about him, or what we imagine angels should

be—a bit solemn-faced, with eyes that view

the world through a lens of kindness—who

sees every man's son as beautiful and whole.