A round camera lens,
       capturing my childhood,
               motivating my infant eyes.

A tipped rocking chair,
       decapitating a diminutive digit,
               leaving the shadow of stitches behind.

Rain on chalk-covered driveways with
       hues bleeding painlessly into pools
              comprised of newly invented colors

Scripts drafted on paper plates for
       fabricated wedding scenes on film with
              ketchup blood smeared across linoleum.

Lakshmi and Shekar’s home with
       turmeric, chili powder, and ginger
              drifting through open windows.

The blinding regret of hot pink walls
       at the crack of a weekend’s dawn,
              as though trapped inside a flashlight.

Asymmetrical windows to the soul,
        upside-down bowling pin toes, and
                   petite hands of a piano player.

Dancing on bloodied feet,
       rising early to speak, and
              finding solace in a flurry of keys.

Stories concealed in journal scrawls and
       a crowded bookshelf with albums of memories,
             captured aptly by the round lens of a camera.