Summer during third grade, was splintering sweltering hot
beads of sweat would drip down hairy young arms
stringy hair and quite a few missing teeth
the children were happy, though

Summer during fourth grade, felt like an old piece of furniture
something felt wrong, but amma never let you fix it
it has been passed down generations with blithe
this was the summer amma told you
a woman was made to feel silent agony

Summer during fifth grade, you felt immovable
textbooks were starting to collect dust in your shelves
you didn't feel the need to be clean, or a good person
you missed school, it was better than staying at home

Summer during sixth grade, you didn't think you'd make it this far
you met your friend's parents who did not fight every other day
and kissed their children on the forehead
they didn't have to ask their kids for forgiveness, because they never seemed to do horrifying things

Summer during seventh grade, it rained early
the willow branches reminded you of Mariam's mother
from a book you read from amma's table,
and you thought of death 
not as painful or dripping with blood
but as a soft release.

.    .    .