Day 938

Oh she is wrapped
in a shroud of blood.
Her mother is holding her.
Her mother is talking to her
as though she could hear.
This morning she woke,
ate some bread, played
on the floor with her toys.
This morning she sang,
talked about wanting
to swim in the sea.
Oh she will never, now,
swim in the sea.  She will never
pick up her little stuffed lamb
again, call it by name,
lay it to sleep
in a cardboard box.  Cover it
with a blanket.  Her blanket.
Her blanket that won’t cover her
anymore.  Oh her blood
is bleeding out, bleeding
through the white cloth
of the shroud, bleeding
onto her mother.  Staining
her mother’s clothes:  four years
of blood being pumped by her heart.
Four years of learning
all she could learn
about being alive.  Will
she be buried now
wrapped in her blood?
Will her mother release her
into the earth with only
this hood, this cape
of her blood
to comfort her child,
to keep her warm?