Day 928

What she found were bones.
Bones with torn flesh
clinging to them. Grasping. Bones
that were whole and as long
as a child’s thigh. Any child’s,
maybe hers. Bones
that were split, that —
had they remained
in their envelope of flesh —
would have been agonizingly
painful, would possibly
not have been able
to be mended. For that
she felt grateful. Grateful?
Her child was shattered,
could not be reassembled.
Like a smashed toy. Like
a puzzle thrown on the ground.
Shards of glass from a broken mirror.
Her own body, too — though
she was not caught
in the bombing — broken
in chaotic grief, her spirit
dispersed on charred ground
among pieces of her child.