Day 1,064

from a photograph

A mother stands at the opening
to her tent, which is not
a tent but some pieces of wood
from which panels of nylon
and a patterned bedspread
hang. She stands
holding her son,
ten years old. The boy
is naked except
for what looks like a diaper.
His legs so thin
they can’t bear his weight,
slight as it is. His arms
too: bones, over which
some thin skin is stretched.
You can see his ribs.
How long has it been
since he’s eaten? How long
since he walked? Played?
Sat up by himself? Pulled
a shirt over his head? And
his mother, holding him
as she held him
when he was an infant:
how much longer, she
must be wondering,
until death swallows him down
the rest of the way. Death,
the one thing around them
that eats and eats.