Image by Frances Magee

He put a tube in her mouth like a cork
to silence her. Down the hall, it only
sounded like a little pop each time he murdered her.
Trigger, hammer, bullet and like magic
no sound came out.
She took it out one night, her child hands
grappling with his deadliness, and her parents
watched her light up like white phosphorus.
In fear, they put the plug back in. They
stoppered their own child, who was exploding
After years, when it was time for her and me
it was like breaking down a door. I was unarmed
against whatever was inside. We loved each other.
She was filled with shrapnel. Bomb struck.
Unsilenced, we heard ten-year-old blasts,
like stars long extinguished. I still feel them


AK Jackson is a young poet living in the United States. She is a graduate of Simon’s Rock College and Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in LUNG, Tryst, Right Hand Pointing, Magnolias Press and The Camel Saloon. She currently lives in Los Angeles, California.

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