Day 1,084

The child was sitting
in front of his tent,
making sand pies, pies
that looked like pies
he could eat. Imagining
cherries, blackberries, peaches.
Imagining he could have a whole pie
to himself, and make another
for his sister. He brought
a handful of sand
to his small mouth,
tasted it with his tongue.
Pretended it was sweet.
Sweet with sugar
they didn’t have. Sweet
with the fruit
that would have been there,
fruit he hadn’t been able
to eat for a long time,
because there was none.
Because his mother,
who might have found it
for him and his sister,
was dead. Because no one
he knew had fruit. So
he pretended. Brought
another handful of sand
to his mouth. That’s
when the quadcopter
sighted him. That’s
when the shot came:
just one. Direct
to his face. Between
his eyes. Leaving him
dead on the ground,
the sand pies intact
around him.