Day 582

from a photograph


Their bodies are wrapped
in things they must have used 
every day: a colorful rug,
a scarf, a tablecloth,
something that looks like a curtain.
A family:  a mother and father
and three children, the youngest —
from what we can tell
by the size of the wrapping —
an infant.  They all
seem to have died together.
Maybe they all
had been sleeping together
in one room, or sitting together
(the baby surely in somebody’s
arms) around a table, eating
what little there was
to eat.  Now they all
lie together in front
of what looks like it could have been
their doorway.  You wonder,
looking at this photograph,
what it would be like
to consider each object
in your house and think,
Will this be my shroud?  Or to walk,
all the many times a day
you do, through your doorway,
and wonder, Will my blood
and the blood of my children
stain these wooden boards
my feet are treading now?