Day 1,039

Tell me this will end, the girl
says to her brother. Tell me,
she says to him without words,
lying next to him
in their dark
tent, adjusting the blanket
a little so his small feet
are covered, Tell me
the drones will stop hovering
above us, the explosions — distant
or near us — will cease, and we will hear
birdsong again and the buzzing
of insects. Tell me
our mother will survive. Tell me
she will not disappear
the way our father did
and our older sisters.  Tell me-
because you were born
in this genocide, so you’ve known
nothing else- tell me
what’s real is that the sun
still shines, the tide still
moves in and out, the heart
remembers to beat. Tell me —
though you’re too young
to have many words — the red ball
we were playing with yesterday
will still be in its place
when we walk out of this tent
this morning, and you’ll
pick it up in your
small hands sticky with sweat
from the summer night, toss it
into the hill of sand we made,
run on your sturdy little legs,
laugh, pick it up. Toss it
again. As though play
were all there is.  Were what
we are living for.