by Sudha Balagopal

when an intruder has prowled while my children slept, while we slumbered,

and my husband calls 911, or my precious girls weep-cling,

and I hug them close.

when muddy footprints mock from the floor

and shelves stare, empty.

no kettle, no pots, pans, cups, plates, or even silverware.

when the policeman taking copious notes, says, “Times are bad,”

and I scrub-scrub-scrub walls, floors, counters,

before we buy kettle, pots, pans, cups, plates, silverware,

after which my husband goes to work, girls to school.

when I lock the door, check-double-check,

close blinds, turn on talk radio.

Loud. Louder. Loudest.

Sudha Balagopal’s writing appears in  Smokelong, swamp pink and Vast Chasm among other journals. Most  recently, her novella in flash, Nose Ornaments, was published by Ad Hoc Fiction, UK. She has had stories included in Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions and the Wigleaf Top 50.