Day 928

What she found were bones.
Bones with torn flesh
clinging to them. Grasping. Bones
that were whole and as long
as a child’s thigh. Any child’s,
maybe hers. Bones
that were split, that —
had they remained
in their envelope of flesh —
would have been agonizingly
painful, would possibly
not have been able
to be mended. For that
she felt grateful. Grateful?
Her child was shattered,
could not be reassembled.
Like a smashed toy. Like
a puzzle thrown on the ground.
Shards of glass from a broken mirror.
Her own body, too — though
she was not caught
in the bombing — broken
in chaotic grief, her spirit
dispersed on charred ground
among pieces of her child.

Day 927

She asked her mother to braid her hair
and tie the braid with a ribbon.
A ribbon was hard to find,
but it was her birthday. Her mother
walked through the tent encampment,
asking everyone for a ribbon; and
at last a woman took a ribbon
from some books she’d tied
with it – an old green ribbon. Worn thin.
But a ribbon! and gave it
to the girl’s mother. The girl,
who was five that day, stood
quietly while her mother
brushed, parted, braided
her hair. A long braid,
halfway down her back.
Dark, shiny hair. Just washed.
The mother took the ribbon
from her pocket, showed
it, for the first time,
to the girl. The girl
gasped with surprise and happiness,
held the ribbon, stroked it
as though it were something alive.
Hours later, when the girl
lay dead on the ground
of the tent encampment
after the airstrike, her mother
bent over her body, kissed
her small face, untied
the ribbon from her child’s
long braid. Put it back
in her pocket forever.

Day 926

The street you lived on
was lined with trees,
tall trees whose shade
you were grateful for
in summer.  Trees
you could climb, trees
whose young leaves
unfolded, light green,
then darkened.  The street
you lived on was filled
with people, voices
you heard as you fell asleep,
comforting.  Familiar.
Sounds of cooking, lids
being put on pots, plates
being laid on tables.
Music.  Cats
who would greet you
when you passed
on the way to school.
An old man who walked
with his dog every morning
and afternoon. The street
you lived on had a
particular curve,
a way the pavement
rose and then fell,
a smell, a name
you could find it by.
How will you find it now?

Day 925

The father’s body
is wrapped around the body
of his small son.
Blood stains both
of their clothing.  The child,
three, has been killed
in the street, standing
quietly with his father
when a vehicle near them
was bombed.  Now
the child is dead
and the father, alive.
Alive and wailing,
alive and sobbing.
They had been going
to a wedding.  The child
would have been dressed
by his father in clothes
for the wedding, but now
he’ll be dressed in a shroud.
He’ll join the thousands
of children dressed now
in shrouds.  Under
the earth, a whole
country of children.
Why why screams the father,
but there is no why.  The moment
he lets go of his son
and forever after, his arms
will be empty.

Day 924

Two brothers dead
in the same moment,
the same bombing.
Two brothers who played
together, studied together,
ate together, took care
of their younger siblings together,
now lie together in separate graves.
Two brothers who loved and fought,
two brothers who consoled
each other, argued for each other.
Are their parents, their sisters,
alive to grieve them?  To
speak about how
they could not save each other?
How funny they were, how full
of mischief?  How neither of them
would have wished
for the other to join him
here, in the sightless company
of moles and worms.
Here, in darkness below darkness.
Here, in silence surrounding silence.

Day 923

An elderly woman, frail,
thrown by a soldier
against the wall of her house.
She dies hours later:
internal injuries.  Her family
stunned.  A young man,
already dead, shot by a sniper,
stripped, lies naked
in the street in a pool
of his own blood.  A van
filled with laughing, joking Israelis
runs over his body. Again.  Again.
Crushing his silent
bones, bruising
his already open flesh.
A three-year-old
shot in a market,
a nine-year-old in her classroom.
Others killed in a café.
The weeks a litany of brutality.
A father wailing, wailing
in agony
at the murder
of his young son.  Do we wonder
at all that his cries
do not reach the enemy?

Day 922

She dreams of a horse
that can carry her
over the rubble, rise up
above it
until they arrive
at a green place, a place
with fruit trees and flowers,
a place like her grandfather’s farm
before everything happened.
She dreams of a bird
large enough, strong enough
to soar over ruined cities
with her on its back,
until they come to a place
where her school still stands,
where her friends
are alive and waiting
for her, where they shout
her name, take her hands,
pull her into their game.
She dreams of her mother
breathing, speaking,
walking with her
to the edge of the sea,
the smell of salt
mixed with the smell
of her mother’s hair.
She dreams their feet
are washed by the tide.
She dreams there are
no bombs, no drones, no warplanes.
No corpses.  No severed limbs.
Only the unending sound of the waves
coming in, receding.

Day 921

Later this soldier
will brag to his friends
how many he killed:  thin,
hungry dogs in the street,
dogs who once belonged
to someone; lost now,
abandoned, scavenging
for food.  Target practice,
the soldier thinks: practice
for when the three teenage boys
turn the corner, laughing, chatting
with one another. He shoots.
Two killed instantly.  One
collapsed in the street, heavily wounded.
The soldier saunters off, lighting
a cigarette.  A witness
picks up the living boy,
carries him, screaming, to a hospital.
Meanwhile the two others
lie still. Two boys,
thirteen and fourteen:  their blood
mingling with the blood
of the dogs, who, like
the children, had done nothing
to catch the soldier’s eye.
Had just been going
about their day.

Day 920

No bread.  No water.  No
formula for the baby.  And 
if there were formula, there
would be no water
to mix it with.   And if
there were formula
and water but no
bread, how long
would your other children
be able to keep eating?
And how then, you ask
yourself, will you keep them
alive?  The baby is crying.
She cries day and night.
Her sisters attempt
to comfort her, but comfort,
too, has run short.  Sleep,
you whisper to her, sleep.
At least if you’re
sleeping you won’t be aware
of the hunger.

Day 919

for Shuruq Abu Sukran

A photograph hung on a string
in her small tent
shows her standing, smiling.
Another time.  Now, at 25,
her legs have been lost
to the genocide, which took
her husband as well, left her alone
with her small boy
and unable ever to stand 
or leave the tent.  Someone
has brought her a large bowl
of water.  She sits, her gone legs
invisible under her long skirt,
smiling at her two year old
who’s helping her wash
his clothes.  Smiling, he holds
one end of the shirt they’re washing.
Shujaiya.  Their whole life
bombed.  Neighbors
who bring food, take the boy
outside the tent to play
with the orange soccer ball
on top of a box
behind them.  Is this
what they’ve preserved
from everything they knew?  A few
blankets, a long skirt,
an orange ball?