Day 1,113

You could not give your friend
a proper burial
because she was handed
to you — her whole family
having been killed
in the bombing — in a plastic bag.
You were the closest one
she had left. You were
given the bag of her,
the weight of whatever parts
of her young body
they could retrieve.
The hands you held.
The legs that walked
the length of the beach with you.
The hair you always envied.
A bag of flesh. A bag
of memories. No whole body
to touch, wash, pray over.
You could not bury her
in a proper grave
but you could lay the bag
in the earth, earth you dug for hours
with your hands, with a spoon,
until it was soft. Earth
as near as you could get
to the rubble of the house
she was martyred in.