Kamila

Seen as she’d hung her cranial lantern
from the roof of her step-father’s garden shed,
the parabolic formula was skipped; like two calves, we followed the fence
to the end of the foot-ball pitch.

Beneath their sprinklers, we kissed on our knees
until their 4 eyeless faces had shrivelled around a few blades
of grass. Soundless time-lapses of short, irrelevant lives.

Every few seconds, he’d sink his canines into the meat
of my bottom lip, sneak his cold hand beneath my skirt,
repeat that oh he’d forgotten. Eventually, I got up,
shook off the dirt. I said nothing when he asked why
my mum never lets him come over.

By pick-up, the middle school secretary had alerted her mailing list
about Kamila’s untimely death. The email gave no further details
but ended ‘with warmth,’ and encouraged the parents to speak
to their children, ask us how we really were.

I was still damp.

Midway home, Ma pulled the car over on the side of the road,
turned, abruptly, to look at me.
I thought she might be smelling
him, oozing through my neck like a city grate,
getting ready to bust my mouth open.

Instead, she told me a parent only ever wants
to see their child happy.

I nodded, and we drove home, pretending,
I had a super-power other 14 year olds
didn’t.

Soledad Santana is a poet obsessed with the consistency of fear, and her work often explores its unequal distribution in society. Her debut poetry pamphlet, Bone wish, won the Fox and Star Press’ competition, and will be published in 2026. Soledad is an alumnus of the Barbican Young Poets. She can be found on Instagram @lasoledadsantana