Day 951

She was handed a bag of flesh
that weighed what her daughter weighed
before she was killed in the airstrike.
It was not so heavy: light enough to carry
in one hand while the other
held the small hand of her son.
Held it tight, in case death
was even more greedy
than they expected.  
What she didn’t know
was whether the flesh in the bag
was really her daughter’s.
Some of it, maybe.  Other pieces
likely belonged to other children.
She couldn’t bring herself to look;
and if she looked, what,
anyway, would she have found?
Not her daughter’s laugh.  Not
her tears. Not her hunger
or her fear or the song she sang
while she sat on the floor
of the tent, learning to tie her shoes.
She carried the bag of flesh
to the tent, laid it down
where the pieces of children
could listen to birdsong and voices.
The pieces of children
were quiet in the bag
that was easily mistaken
for a bag that could have held
soiled paper or moldy food.
Because of that, the mother
watched over it.  Told her small son
not to touch it. Crouched
in the dust and spoke
to the pieces of children
as though her daughter
were sitting beside her friends
in a schoolroom, as though
there were something remaining
to teach them, as though
they would stand
after a while, run out
to the yard, shout gleefully
to each other to play
some game.