Day 610

The boy is holding
his sister’s hand. He’s six
or seven. She’s probably
four, looks younger
from not having eaten.
Their mother left before dawn
to get them some food.
It’s late afternoon now.
She hasn’t come back.
The boy knows
she should be with them
by now, knows something
has surely happened 
to her.  His sister
is crying: hunger?
Fear?  She feels
his worry, though
he doesn’t speak it.
He stands,
not letting go
of her hand,
outside their tent,
squinting in bright sun,
watching their neighbor
from the next tent
squat on the ground, washing
her children’s clothes
in a pot. It consoles him
a little to think
he could ask her
to be their mother
if their mother is dead.