Poetry by Shalini Rana

                     Ross Griff CC



Eighth Grade Affliction 

The first time you died was like
every other time: 
the red-blaring machine
paramedics towing 
the stretcher through the door
Mumma following 
close behind
her gait low, fast, and
solemn

My body 
in another room

This time
the kitchen
and this time
your day-nurse
distraught--
with tears like black holes
etched on her face

This time two cops
interrogate her upstairs
until she comes down
with no more tears 
left to spill
Black-hole-face

This time I think
your last time 

This time: my fourteenth year
your tenth
just years piling 
like old sweaters
a perpetual unbuttoning

In the kitchen my body
drifts to the ceiling 
the police still standing in my home.

​


For A

the boy in the red wine room 
is younger now
is not screaming
but loud in his hands

the peaks of his knuckles
dance across the screen
of buttons that become
words 
uttered by a 
machine 
whose voice is female

his voice is 
balled fists banging 
with the human urge to speak

I am not this lady machine!

his ocean eyes darting 
his wordless mouth open
grinning

his body

already speaking
a sweeter sound

​

Shalini Rana is a poet from Vienna, Virginia who writes about moments in the margins of sickness, death, and childhood trauma. She is pursuing her MFA in poetry at the University of Arkansas. In addition to reading and writing, she loves her family, pizza, and The Beatles.

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