by Lavinia Kumar
On the cold floor of void the child cries.
And in the echo she hears only the buzz
of a fly she cannot see. There’s no end
to the hurt in the fiery bumps once
her face, in the knife edge hackings
over her bottom half. And he did it.
She brought him water as was proper
for a child. Then in his room she heard
her screams and his loud breathing
as he tore the blue dress her aunt bought
for her birthday last week – her mother
would be so mad. And then he did it.
And he did it again. And more. Punched
her face when she cried. Now she feels
hardness of the floor. Wants to run if
he’s gone. Cannot move. Hears the fly again.
Cannot hear her mother. Hears her cries.
He put candles in her. She emptied when he did it.
Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her chapbook Rivers of Saris is published by Main Street Rag and her poetry has appeared in several publications in the US and UK. She writes a blog for seniorsmagazine.org , and is an editor of children’s poetry at PoetryWITS.