A gaping hole wider than our planet’s surface
Grows inside her
and I watch
Yearning to pick her up in my wide arms and rock her back to whole
Benched on the side lines
I watch the game over and over
Screaming out profanities play after play
But…
it’s not mine
Not mine to play
Not mine to watch
Not mine at all
So I walk off the field
Hoping
Reminding myself to trust
The player
Her ability to fill that hole
Without me.
Sonia Chintha is an Indian American writer who lives in the Washington DC area. She blogs, writes poetry, and fiction. She is also an English teacher who believes that our experiences teach us more than any test. She is the founder and co-editor of Good Little Girls.
Fire limned with resentment, eating up the air until I choke— this is my anger, gaslit, bewildered. No longer able to tell who should be
Sweet, silky plantain, creamy cinnamon custard massage my tongue. It’s new and addictive and comforting. A dull headache lingers reminding me that I am now
The crisp cool air catches my cheeks, like a mother holding the face of her child in her palms– I gaze back into her eyes: