Day 1,007

The father bends over the body
of his six-year-old son, just
murdered. The child’s face
is all the shroud
does not yet cover:
small face, not yet pale
with death. The father
rocks back and forth,
moaning. Weeping.
He is not ready
to lay his son in the earth.
to say goodbye.
How could he be? Only yesterday
he and his son
were walking together,
talking, playing ball.
Only yesterday the father
was thinking how much
the boy had learned, even
without school. How much
he knew about drones,
quadcopters, uniforms. How adeptly
he counted the number
of friends and cousins
who’d died. Now his number
is added to theirs. Now
he will never be older than six.