Day 945

You lie on the floor
of your tent, trying to remember
the girls in your
third grade classroom, the day
before the genocide:
one in the corner of the front row,
her whole family murdered, her house
gone.  The girl who sat
next to her:  her brothers martyred,
the rest of them displaced,
over and over.  The two
who filled out that row:
each of them lost
a leg.  One had been
a dancer, had performed
only days before.  You lie there,
counting each one:  some
whose names you can’t
remember, some who were
your best friends.  The two
you walked home with
every day, twins
whose kitchen table was where
you all did your homework, laughed
together, ate fruit and bread.
Where are they now?  Where
is their mother, who stood
behind you at the table, gently
correcting your arithmetic?
Their faces remain
with you and disappear.
You imagine the rows, rows
of girls smiling when they saw you
come into the room.  Never again.
Never.  Never again.