Day 1,110

The daughter you had
is not this child. Not
this girl who barely speaks,
who sits all day in the corner
of the tent, tearing bits
of paper, sweeping them up
with her one hand, making
a hill of them, a tower, a small house.
Holding the paper between
her teeth, which she’d
have done with
her gone hand, her hand
that used to write, hold
a fork, hold
her brother’s hand. The daughter
you had wrote stories, climbed trees.
Laughed with her friends. Loved
warm nights, could name
the biggest constellations.
Is she anywhere there? Did she
disappear with her blown-off
hand? Will she return,
emerge from that thin
wan body, unbroken again
despite everything?