Mummy,
I cannot count the numbers on my fingers—
My teacher never taught me so many.
Did the numbers break?
Or did someone hide them away?
Mummy, why did you scream last night?
Cece came to me in dreams—
her face stained red like broken sky.
She said she’s not coming back.
Mummy, why is Daddy not here?
Why do your eyes keep falling tears?
Why are there so many shoes outside?
Why does Uncle’s face carry a scar?
Mummy, who brought Daddy’s car home?
Where are JoJo and her mother?
Their shy smiles and bright eyes—
will I ever play with them again?
Mummy, why are so many still sleeping?
Deep like the flies don’t bother them?
Why is the sand bleeding red?
Why is my name now a hashtag?
Mummy, I saw fireworks—
a giant mushroom in the clouds.
Who were the people celebrating?
Why didn’t I hear the drums?
Mummy, is God angry with us?
Why did thunder tear down our house?
Why did Lolo run away naked?
Shouldn’t shame make her hide,
especially when the men come?
Mummy, why didn’t you let me play
police and thief?
They had toys—
toys you never bought for me.
Mummy, you stopped crying—
but why don’t you move?
What did they do to you
when they walked into the room?
Mummy, talk to me.

Editor’s note: This poem first appeared in 2015. The text published here follows the substantially revised version collected in Poetry Has All My Pain (First Edition, 2025).