Photo by Aditya Romansa on Unsplash
My son’s born without skin over his chest—lungs, heart, exposed.
Whispers float about the inside, outside.
As his lungs balloon and his heart pulses, I place my index finger inside his fist, until he tight-clutches, breath accelerating. I tell him not to worry, sometimes my heart panic-dives, sometimes my lungs hurtle.
They say, “He must be covered up,” like it’s shameful, already teaching him to keep things folded, tucked, in.
At home, I run my fingers over the edges of his new skin, so different from the rest of his body, itch to peel it off like Velcro.
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Sudha Balagopal’s writing appears in CRAFT, Split Lip, and Smokelong Quarterly among other journals. Her full-length flash collection is forthcoming from Alternating Current Press in 2024. Find her on Twitter @authorsudha or www.sudhabalagopal.com
