Backstop to a Rumble by Hannah Trontvet
Little neighbor girl, your head once bounced above my fence to the creak of trampoline springs. That night your neck bent down below your kitchen table to shelter from the shell shot. One grazed your abdomen. They say you are okay, but your trampoline is still quiet.
My little boy, sleeping sweetly in your crib, fan blowing away the heat from your curls. I count how many walls are between your rosy cheeks and the gunfire.
Little neighbor girl, your grandma talks of taking you back to her home islands. Tropical breezes will blow through your dark hair with the creak of palm trees.
My little boy, this is my childhood home. I have nowhere to take you back to.
The family of four raccoons is still here, the crows haven’t fled. When the sirens and rifles leave, the neighborhood cat is still there to set off our security cameras.
So we stay too, for now. We say hello to neighbors we never noticed before. Now we have something in common—bullet holes in our windows.
