Day 1,063

For Israa and her mother

The child was nine. Killed.
Wrapped in a shroud: you can see
the one hand that is whole.
Her other hand shattered. Concealed.
Hand that turned the pages
of books. Hand that drew
animals, trees. Brushed
her hair. Hand
that wrote words. Stories.
That held forks. Spoons. Cups.
That worked with the other hand
to tie her shoes. All these months
the girl and her mother
simply trying to stay alive:
find food. Fill a bucket
with water. Her mother
grieving, dying
the following day
of injuries sustained
in the same assault. Her mother
who, for a moment,
before falling
unconscious, held
her child’s ravaged hand
in her own. Hand
she had held
from hour to hour
through nights of explosions.
From nightmare to nightmare.
Fear to fear. Now
she will hold it
from one eternity to the next.