Architecture of the Aftermath
By Dhaanvi Jaipuriar
I am building the morning from the debris
of a 3:00 PM strike. No blueprints—
just a scorched doorframe, a handful of teeth,
and the silver dust of Golestan mirrors
settling like toxic snow over a child’s
cold, half-eaten breakfast.
The air has a chemical weight today.
Not oxygen, but the residue of a voice note
cut mid-sob when the grid went dark.
I am the walls vibrating with the names
of the girls in Minab—one hundred
and seventy-five small ghosts
whose backpacks floated in the harbor
before their bodies were pulled from the dirt.
The sun is a structural defect.
It spills through the blast-shutter like lye,
bleaching the Persian silk until the garden
is as gray as a shroud.
Do not patch the ceiling. I need the smoke.
This is how we breathe while the horizon is liquid.
In the corner, I am the silence growing teeth.
I smell of diesel and the copper of a fresh wound.
Don't look for the signature of the man
who ordered the strike. Look for the way
the tea leaves settle in the cup,
forming the shape of a country
being erased from the map.
If your heart is still hitting your ribs,
you are the only monument.
I haven’t learned how to break—yet.
Author Bio: Dhaanvi Jaipuriar is 14 years old and goes to William Hopkins Middle School in Fremont, California. Previously published in Eunoia Review, she lives with her parents and enjoys reading and playing tennis in her free time.