by Anuja Ghimire
“Separated from her mother by T***p’s zero-tolerance policy, the child was forced to sign a statement confirming thatshe understood it was her responsibility to stay away from her abuser.” The Nation, July 27, 2018
I hold my daughter
as she leaves
me to become mine
Before she crawls on my skin
After colostrum
Before she knows white of moon
After she touches red of sari
Before she sleeps to fields of gold
After her hair comes down
Before one dent of dimple above her mouth
After wet umbrella of her eyelashes
Before she loses first diamond in her jaw
After her raw gum
After babies leave Sandy Hook
After children leave Marjorie Stoneman Douglas
After mothers leave borders but infants stay
Before I am her home
After she walks with my heart
to the door, backyard, seat beltless yellow bus
I hold my daughter
after she always returns mine
A published author of two poetry books in Nepali as a young girl in Kathmandu, Anuja Ghimire moved to Dallas, Texas after finishing college and continued writing poetry. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she lives with her husband and two little girls near Dallas and works as an editor in the e-learning industry.
