SHAGUFTA MULLA
|
REVERBATIONS
I. A hand the size of her left cheek knocks her out of farm animal songs the first time, knocks her out of sacred self the second, knocks her into wild diving squawks and crushing waves the third. II. The suddenness of my car clipping the curb knocks my nervous system into five years old, my mother stuck in the basement, my knowing face flushing for the both of us as I stand just out of view by the stairs, both arms clinging the pink rabbit she gave me, hoping he doesn’t come up first. III. Soft trills float by on bobbing Pacific foam, pull me into rushing peace I long to drown in, not knowing if I desire life or death, but tiny endangered plovers ache in my chest at the absence of me, darting around my drying driftwood, looking for a safe place to rest. IV. The first time his hand settles on my left cheek I flinch and I can’t stop the tumble of salt and burn.
Santa Fe Literary Review
107
