Day 1,013

Where is your sister?
Did her body explode in fragments
when a bomb projected her
into the air? Did she lie
buried under the rubble
of your house for hours,
even days, before
her breath stopped
for the last time?
Does the rubble
still cover her?
Is she flesh or skeleton?
Did someone throw her
into a mass grave? An
unmarked grave? A grave
with a number instead
of a name? Did soldiers
find her, shackle her, drag her
into their vehicle, throw her
into a prison cell, where
she crouches now in a
cramped space, with rotten
food, filthy water? Where
is the sister who sang
to you, whispered to you
the names
of her crushes, drew
portraits of everyone
she loved? How, without
knowing whether she’s
dead or alive, can you
know how to grieve her?