Day 1,061

Deir al-Balah

The girl, ten years old,
is being wheeled on a gurney
to the hospital, though it’s clearly
too late. Killed instantly
in an airstrike. Her perfect feet
stick out of the gray blanket
someone has wrapped her in.
Her father accompanies the men
who are wheeling her
through the wrecked streets.
Her face still, that had been
so animated. Her feet
still, that had run, climbed,
jumped. When they stop
at the hospital, her father
bends over her body,
kisses her face, weeps
so hard a brother or neighbor
pulls him away.
His child. His daughter.
His world. A doctor gently
wipes the dust, the remains
of the exploded ground,
from the child’s face.
Her eyelids. The skin
above her mouth. As though
he were wiping off milk
or red stains from strawberries.
No more milk, ever. No more
strawberries. It’s the fingerprint
of death he’s attempting
to erase, and cannot.