War, not school, by Sara Siddiqui Chansarker

Lately

I have changed

my schedule

to drop him off.

I fill my nostrils

with the smell of

aftershave he’s started dabbing,

hair cream he’s started applying.

I fill my palms

with the girth

of his solid arm

as I squeeze him goodbye.

I fill my eyes

with his tall frame

becoming small towards the brick building.

And I press with my fingers into the hippocampus,

the color of his T-shirt,

the leather patch on his jeans,

and the logo on his tennis shoes.

 

In case.

 

Lately

I feel as if

I’m seeing off my son to war,

not another day at school.

One thought on “War, not school, by Sara Siddiqui Chansarker

  1. Pingback: War, not School – Sara's Puny Fingers

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