Day 638

The surgeon is standing
beside a child’s bed.
The child is eight.  She’s
been shot in the head
by a soldier.  Close range.
At a food distribution hub,
her father witnessing.
The doctor studies the image
he holds in his hands:  there
is the bullet, lodged
in the child’s cerebellum.
Even if he can remove it,
will she ever be able to walk?
Breathe on her own?  The surgeon
weighs the odds, knows
if he doesn’t remove the bullet
the child will die.  He sets down
the image of her brain, which,
until the bullet, he would have said
was perfect.  He cleans his hands
as well as possible, calls
for his nurses.  Takes up
his tarnished instruments of hope.