Amulek

When sun sloped over threshold
on slow, sultry afternoons,
I would watch my children play
in the yard—tumbling daughter
and round son, like the curly glyphs
that spilled from brush to page
at my writing table. My wife
Eztli would scoop them up,
each to an arm, laughter splashing
as she trundled them to hammocks
for songs and naps.

I will never see them again
in this life—yet I subsist
on God’s promise,
angel’s word,

and Alma’s welcome,
whom I now hear whimper
from down the hall
as he sometimes does
while he sleeps.

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