Day 1,112

for Shaimaa Hussein

The friend you thought
you’d share all your life with
is gone. Dead with her family
in a bombing at the start
of the genocide. The friend
who wrote poems, who brought
you presents, who sat on the beach
with you before everything happened,
chatting about school, exams,
graduation. The friend who promised
to meet you every week
beside the sea
so you could walk together,
talk, share a meal. She’s
gone, with everything else
that’s gone. And you remain
to regret the small slights,
the moments of thoughtlessness,
the infinitesimal betrayals. Your face
turned from hers
for a moment. A message
not sent. An arm not taken.
Had you known, you say
to yourself — but how
could you have known?
How could either of you
have known?