Day 1,010

The father was holding
his infant son
after the airstrike.
He had held him like that
for months, the baby’s head
on his shoulder,
little feet dangling
out of the blanket. As
the father carried
the small still body
to the hospital, he thought
to himself that his child
didn’t feel all that different,
wasn’t cold or stiff.
There was blood
where the shrapnel
pierced his heart; but the baby
had bled before
and had always survived.
The father found himself
setting his child
on the ground, pressing
an ear to his tiny chest,
listening for a heartbeat.
Listening again. Again.
Saying, then shouting,
the child’s name.
He picked up
his son, kissed his small
face. Now life
began spilling out
of the child, first slowly,
in droplets; then all at once.