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Sharan Hunjan

Our house was broken.

Our house was broken.


Black sky silent, secretive

We found our pink plastic money boxes 

Strewn across the floor 

Emptied of their bronze pennies.


Your bedroom was broken the most.


Like torn flesh, clothes had been flung

Bed pulled apart

Your wedding jewellery was gone.


It was somewhere in the street.


Tv, camera, hi-fi - ugly bulky objects were safe

Proud pillars of the house 

Only your gold had been snatched

By the teeth of the night.


You sat on your knees

Crawling through the shreds of the room

But mama, your gold was gone.


Too small to climb over the wall,

Dad pulled us up.

We cried over our empty money boxes.

Police dusted the house

It looked like ash.


Now I see you in your photograph

Adorn at the head

A burning sun

Thick, gold tikka 

Jewelled ears

Panja cusping, running

Along your wrists

Crowning each finger

Leaves curled around your 

Thin neck

Nath hanging, shape of a smile, at your nose.

“This is mine.”

You stare down at the camera




Sharan Hunjan is a British Indian poet who grew up in Southall and is interested in the poetics of language, post-colonialism and race.

Sharan is a member of the writing collective 4 BROWN GIRLS WHO WRITE.

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