Day 1,015

They hand you a bag
with what they tell you
are your son’s remains.
You carry it for a while.
Feel its weight. Then dare
to look inside: a human skull.
Some fragments of bone.
Your son was tall; he’d grown
taller than you. His bones
were long — not
these shards. His face
smiling or grieving or
thoughtful. You take
the bag to your tent,
tenderly lay it down
in the place where he
used to sleep. You
can’t know — there’s
no way of knowing —
if this is your son. But it’s
some mother’s son, you
tell yourself. And
you promise yourself
to take care of whoever it is,
as you hope some other mother
whose son was also killed
will take care of yours
if that’s who she’s given.