Day 1,103

You would be seven years old now,
my smallest daughter,
killed when you were five.
Five! You hadn’t yet
learned to read, to write anything
but your name. To add simple numbers.
You would be seven: taller, stronger.
You’d be climbing trees,
if we still lived any place
where trees
were standing. You
would be running to school
in the morning, backpack
flapping behind you, calling
to friends on the corner
to wait for you to join them.
You would be wearing the dresses
your sisters would be handing down
to you, dresses they wore
themselves when they
were the age you’d be now
if the genocide weren’t happening.
If there hadn’t been air strikes.
If the bomb hadn’t been dropped.
If the house hadn’t gone dark.
If the fire hadn’t consumed you
before I could reach you.