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Hotline by Kirun Kapur
Hotline I have been trained so when she says, I watched my father smash my mother’s forehead with a wooden broom handle, I show no sign of shock. The poet liked to say, you shouldn’t borrow sorrow. Write real things: dish pans, porch screens, broom handles. Give me a humble trash bag. For years this face I trained my mind to un-see— cheek eaten away by fish, girl-body, washed up in the canal, wrapped— the brand identified as Glad. No scars birthmarks clothes jewelry 5’2, 133, precisely my own height and weight. Police were saying was she sure it was a broom handle?
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