Day 1,052

The child has spent
the genocide making objects
from wet sand, mud, what clay
she can find. Whenever
she’s sad, afraid,
Ravaged with loss,
she makes something.
She tells this to her mother,
her grandmother, whatever friends
she has who are still
alive. Make something,
she tells them. Cradle the sand,
the mud, in your hands. See
how, minute by minute,
it starts to change. To grow
round. To grow deep. To
begin to be able to hold
something else. Maybe
not food, she says,
when there is none. Maybe
not seeds, if
there are none. Maybe
tears. Maybe a memory
of a cousin, gone now
for two years. Maybe
light pouring down
from the moon. Maybe
cool air that used to be sweet
with the smell of jasmine.