Day 1,057

They gathered the parts
of your body — the ones
they could find —
into a bag. Gave the bag
to your mother. Your body,
which she had birthed
into this world. Held.
Washed. Tended in fever,
in cold, in heat, in the small
brokennesses that come
to everyone’s body: bruises,
cuts. A bone cracked
in a fall from a bicycle.
Your body, which she
had fed: first
with her own body.
Then with food given by earth.
Her brothers, her neighbors
gathered what they could find. Wrapped
fingers, random pieces
of flesh, even
the sleeve of a dress
you were wearing, in a white shroud.
Placed the shroud
in a bag. Your mother
did not want to look.
She does not want to remember you
as fragments. She wants
to see you, in her mind’s
eye, her heart’s
beating, running
across a field, chasing
your friends, your sisters.
Your legs whole and strong.
Long braids flying down your back.