By Elmaz Abi­nad­er

Sit on the ambu­lance floor, rubber mat

rutting your legs. Cradle your daugh­ter lifted

into your arms

when your husband called, you

ran ran ran    The day was hot, on fire

sandals slipped away from your feet

crum­bles of wall and window rolled

beneath you

                your daughter

wet face on your bare arm shed her skin as

you pick the shards out one

at a time

You will be at the hos­pi­tal soon, you reason,

where you lie with her on the tile floor while those

who cannot feel their skin are wrapped in sheets.

The dream that night is a quiet lake where

she will stand at the edge, throw­ing bread

to the ducks.

You stand at a dis­tance, to look at her in a photograph

the blind­ing sun light­ing her in a burst, one

that makes her skin remember.

Elmaz Abi­nad­er has pub­lished books of poetry, a memoir, and other things and works making oppor­tu­ni­ties for writers of color. Abi­nad­er can be found online at www.elmazabinader.com and @elmazabinader.

This poem orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 21. Support local book­sellers and inde­pen­dent pub­lish­ers by order­ing a print copy of the mag­a­zine.

Photo by Andrea Cipri­ani