Not Fiona Poem by Pranav Arora

I think of the child who drown in the creek,
and was discovered by her matted hair
floating on the surface of the water.

And the boy whose room is left untouched,
the bed unmade
and picture frames collecting dust.

And the mother on her porch,
still waiting for the sound
of tires against gravel.

I place a hand against my abdomen,
the parts now rearranged
and motionless,

and tell myself to say
anything
but a name.