after Sreshtha Sen
in another life, my hand grips my belly,
my other hand an extension of my cell
phone, lights flashing in my pupils.
nine months will be preserved in my
phone’s gallery, waiting to be posted
in a carousel. five years pass by and
i smile at my daughter circling on a
metal horse, bobbing to calliope songs,
my camera too slow to capture the
motion. for a moment: it’s 1994 again
and i’m my daughter riding around
a fixed point like hair swirling down
a shower drain. there is a Halloween
party: i’m Snow White in a homemade
dress that will never be worn again. i eat my
cupcake as tears roll down my ribcage and
other children laugh. my body’s been discarded
from the umbilical cord but i still remember
to call home every night, my mother’s
mouth too fast to capture the words.
my hand grips my daughter’s, my other
hand an extension of my cell phone,
lights flashing in our pupils.
i don’t know if i’m smiling but my
daughter looks up at me and says,
it’s okay mom, i know you get sad sometimes.
k.p.fen (she/her) is a Filipina-American poet, engineer, and mental health advocate who resides in New Jersey with her loving husband and cat. Her poems appear in The Post Grad Journal, New Note Poetry, and her first self-published poetry book And All Things Fragile. Find her on Instagram at @inkdroplets.