His Claim Mark Koyama
The sky darkened.
We stood under
the trees—my boy
only nine years old—
the yellow slicker and
blue rubber boots
of his childhood, bright,
like a fragment of sun left
behind at the edge
of the dirt road
in the mottled shadows
of the saplings.
The rain came on.
I got into the old car
saying “I have to go.”
But he did not turn
to the house. He stood
looking at me, eyes
clear and sad, as if
they knew something
essential about the sky
but could not say.
And then, his claim, shy
like the rustle of a bird’s wing:
“Can you give me a hug?”
I got out of the car
and held him, shaking
from the beauty of it
knowing I’d almost
missed it. Aware
that it was already gone.
West along the river
and out over the hilltowns
somewhere
came the mumble
of spring thunder.