Day 942

What will we feed this child?
This perfect newborn?
This gift, this radiant defiance
of the genocide?
His mother is so thin,
her body can’t make
the milk he needs
to stay alive.  The trucks
supposed to bring food
are held up, prevented
from coming in.  They wait
at the border, hover
like desperate birds
unable to reach their nests
where hatchlings
huddle with open mouths.
No formula.  Nothing.
Will you make sugary water
for him?  Will there even be
enough water? How will
he grow?  How will you
gather all he needs
from the nothing, the less
than nothing, you’re given?