Day 1,073

Tell me how you rise
from the floor of the tent
where you sleep, your
arthritic knees barely able
to hold you at first. Tell me then
how you steady yourself:
no furniture in the tent,
nothing to hold on to.
Then tell me how you wash,
since there’s no water
anywhere near. Then
how you begin
making your breakfast:
how you light a fire.
How you clean a pot.
A bowl. A cup. Then
tell me how you walk out,
through the corridors
of tents, to find
a place to relieve yourself.
A long line. People talking,
children crying. Now
tell me how you continue
bearing your grief: your house.
Your garden. Your children.
Grandchildren. The sister you promised
(as she died of an illness
that could have been cured)
not to forget. How you speak her name
over and over, as though
you could wake her
from under the rubble.
Tell me how you stop the tears.
Tell me how, when you walk,
you carry the weight
of everything you’ve lost.