sunset. under the green umbrellas at the café called atticus
a procession of babies waddles over the brick terrace.
one eats an apple with industry and precision.
one has hair so pale, he looks crowned
with the wings of moths that flashed in my headlamp
in the dark before sunrise.
one, barefoot in a diaper and a shirt, runs
to the lip of the street, past dogs and strangers, past
the fire hydrant, through the roots and stalks of tables, to
the sidewalk where the café’s domain dissolves.
mom and dad sit back, sip americanos, clear-eyed, calm
as though the world had a safety lock, like a gun.
by Christianna Soumakis
Christianna Soumakis is an artist, writer, art instructor, and pilgrim. She has an MFA in fine art, has walked the Camino de Santiago three times, is a Pushcart Nominee, and studies the intersection of art, faith, and pilgrimage. She lives in New York.
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