Day 597

This mother has lost nine
of her ten children.
Seven have been found, though
not their whole bodies.  It’s assumed
that two more lie buried
under the rubble
of what had been their home.
The mother is a doctor; she
had been working at a hospital
when the bomb was dropped
and the fire spread, the explosion
spread, and suddenly all but one
of her children dissolved
into nothing. Into ruin and waste
and devastation.  Her husband too
lies in a hospital, critically
injured.  And she, who had been
treating patients:  now what
will she do with her own
saved, shattered life?  How
will she go on
raising the single child who is left?
And her story will be told. Her story
will be told for a week, maybe 
a few weeks. Then, tell me:
will it too,
like the lives of her children,
disappear under the rubble?
The unspeakable debris
of so many lives?

Day 596

This baby is two weeks old
and growing smaller, as though
she could almost fit back
into the narrow
uncomplicated space
she emerged from, the space
where thirst and hunger
didn’t exist.  Where fear
didn’t exist.  Every day
she loses a little 
of the body she came 
with, and her mother
has little milk to feed her.
The older children
bring their mother what food
they can find.  A neighbor
offers what she has.  The baby
gives all her strength
to crying for more, and the mother
cries because there is
no more.  How long
do they have?  My children
are dying a little each day,
the mother says
to no one, to herself.
To the menacing sky.

Day 595

Overhead there’s a drone.
Is this one for you?
You’re ten.  You’ve been sent
by your grandmother, the only
family you have left, to find
some water.  She
can’t walk.  She has promised
she’ll make some rice for
the two of you if you can find
water to boil it, and you think
you know where to find some
when suddenly you hear the drone
and you know you need to hide.
You’re ten.  Ten.  You press
your back against a fallen wall.
You try not to move.  Not even
to breathe.  You know the drone
is searching for a target
and you don’t want that
to be you.  You close your eyes.
You try to picture the rice:  a plate
full of rice, maybe some greens.
You imagine its fragrance.  Imagine
your grandmother bringing a spoonful
of rice to her dry lips.  The drone
still buzzes above you.  You crack open
one eye.  You see it’s passing.
Who will it find now, if this time
it isn’t you?  The boy
you were playing with
this morning?

Day 594

The child’s face is burned, burned
down to the bone.  Who can say
who this child was? What his smile
was like, how his mouth
puckered a little
when he was sad.  How his eyes —
blue? brown? — pooled with tears.
And his hair — what color
was his hair?  Did his mother
brush it morning and evening,
with a soft brush? with her fingers?
How can a face catch fire?  How long
does a child stay conscious
when his face is turning to ash?
And who will step forward now
to wrap his broken body, cover
his face for the last time, swaddle
him in a white shroud until he looks
like everyone else who is dead?

Day 593

A few grains of rice.  Canned lentils.
How long can a child of four
live on these?  How long
can she survive when the rice
is boiled in foul water?  When 
foul water is all
she has to drink?  You tell her
to sleep.  You tell her
to save her energy.  You see her
sitting outside the tent, sifting sand
through her small, weak fingers.
trying to build a hill out of sand,
but the sand slides down, down
and down, and her hill
will not stand.  And she
is too weak to stand, too weak
to withstand not being able
to make her hill, and she starts
crying now for her father
who was killed, her three brothers
killed, her infant sister
who died of hunger, for the sky
that used to be clear of warplanes,
for the hill she is trying
to make out of sand
that keeps falling, falling.

Day 592

You had four children, the youngest
two months old.  There was one
who was learning to run, one
who was learning to read.  The oldest
would carry the baby
everywhere in her arms,
stroke her silken dark
hair.  Now
their blown-apart bodies
are unrecognizable,
indistinguishable one
from another.  How
will you bury them?  What
can you bury?  They
were your children, your
jewels, your treasures.  Now
their limbs, their tiny
perfect red organs,
are caught in the bloodied
branches of trees.  Will the birds
eat them now?  Are the birds
also starving?

Day 591

They say they’ll let food in
but no food is coming.  They say
they’ll begin to let medicines in,
but your father has seizures
and needs medicine every day.
You sit on the sand, trying to read
a book you’ve already read, the one book
you’ve been able to take with you
through all the displacements.
You’re ten.  Before this genocide began,
you were a little girl.  Now 
you need to take care
of everyone in your family:
Younger brothers, younger sister.
Your mother is dead. You’re
left to find whatever there is
to eat, which, for days, has been 
grasses, some berries
that still grow wild
near the beach where you’ve pitched
your tent.  From where you’re sitting
you hear your father’s choked scream:
another seizure.  You will go to him
one more time, hold his head, keep him
from swallowing his tongue. 
How many more days
can you do this?  You: hungry,
exhausted.  Your legs
too weak now to run.
How many more days
til your childhood dissolves altogether
into the noise of drones, the fetid air? 

Day 590

Once this child woke
laughing at the sun
as it danced 
through shadows of leaves
on the wall of her room.
Now she has barely strength enough
to open her eyes.  Now her body
is shrinking when it ought to be
growing.  Now she forgets words
she knew, forgets songs 
she learned in her one year of school.
Now her arms are as thin
as the branches of olive trees
which themselves are only memories.
Now her legs, which carried her
through fields of flowers,
can barely move.  Now when her mother
lifts her from the place
she sleeps, it’s like lifting
a stem.  A dying branch.

Day 589

What have you found
in the rubble you’ve been
digging through?  Have you found
your grandfather’s smile — the one
that appeared only when you
or your cousins walked
into the house?  Have you found
your small brother’s
voice?  The songs
he’d sing when he lay
in his bed alone
in the early mornings?
Have you found your mother’s
hand, the hand she’d rest
on your forehead
when you had a fever,
when you’d had a difficult time
with a friend and she
wanted to soothe you?
What have you managed
to glean from all
that destruction?  All
that loss?  All those shards
of a life?  And who
have you become now,
who is digging?

Day 588

Take a photograph of this apple; it will be
the last apple you see for months.
Maybe forever?  Even dry,
even mealy, you long
to bite into it — and you long
to preserve it.  Whole.  Untouched.
So you know what an apple
looked like.  So, on days
even worse than this, you
can remember.  Once
apples grew on a tree
in your garden.  Once you could
pick them whenever you wanted,
whenever they grew ripe.  Once
you sat on soft grass
surrounded by fallen apples.
Now you have paid so much
to buy this one at a shop
with shelves nearly empty.  The last
apple.  The last day
of the last fruit.