Day 1,042

The child stands and watches
as neighbors dig through the rubble
searching for bodies. This
was her street — no longer
a street but a pile of rocks,
shattered concrete. Somewhere
near here — she can’t
recall exactly — was her house.
The house she lived in
with her parents. Her brothers.
Her grandmother. Somewhere
near here was the house
her friend lived in, the friend
she walked to school with
every morning. She watches them
dig. Everything buried
so long ago. Why
now? she wonders.
There are no
machines: some are digging
with shovels. Some
witch bare hands. What
will they bring to the surface,
she wonders: her mother’s
smile? Her tiny sister’s
hand, waving to her
from the window? A song
she danced to? The shape
of her days? A shaft
of sunlight on the patterned
rug? The cat
who slept in her lap?