CW: gun violence
My child drew a picture
of our house,
me sitting here in the
pouch of the armchair,
my body threatened
with a violence.
The pain was
not extraordinary,
circle
within circle
for eyes
balanced on an
empty triangle.
Six lines stilted,
a blue house.
A cylinder gun
etched to my mom’s
temple.
I forgot—
when we are children
we can’t keep from popping up
from where we are told
to stay.
We crumple
the spirograph
screams of our parents.
And now I hear them,
and now they follow me.
He knew
I would never leave this
boxed house.
It wasn’t as if
I was
a child
—
Artwork by: Senjuti Kundu
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