Day 592

You had four children, the youngest
two months old.  There was one
who was learning to run, one
who was learning to read.  The oldest
would carry the baby
everywhere in her arms,
stroke her silken dark
hair.  Now
their blown-apart bodies
are unrecognizable,
indistinguishable one
from another.  How
will you bury them?  What
can you bury?  They
were your children, your
jewels, your treasures.  Now
their limbs, their tiny
perfect red organs,
are caught in the bloodied
branches of trees.  Will the birds
eat them now?  Are the birds
also starving?