Day 1,104

Rats in the tent. You wake
in the night to the cries
of your children, rats
biting their feet. You pick up
the broom you use daily
to sweep dust, sand, dirt
from the tent floor; yell
at the rats — three
or four of them — to
get out, chase them
with the broom
through the tent’s flap
into the dark.
Inspect your children’s feet,
wash the blood with water
you still have, comfort their crying.
Think of the antibiotic ointment
you’d use on their feet
if you had some. One more
peril averted, or nearly.
One more reason for vigilance.
Attacks, you think, from the sky,
from behind rubble and underbrush,
and from the filth on the ground.
Nowhere a refuge.