Day 962

Sometimes you wonder
what your life would be like
now, had there not
been this genocide.
You look outside the tent
at the bare ground, ground
covered with nothing
but rubble. You remember
your house, the houses
across the road, the trees
that lined that road, abundant
with leaves. You remember
sitting in the classroom
with the professor you admired,
who was killed only months
after everything began. You remember
his words, his voice, the poet
he lectured on. You try
to remember the name
of that poet, whose work
you loved, wish
there were someone —
anyone — to ask; and this
reminds you of all
that’s been lost. You picture
the classroom, the rows
of students. This one
dead. That one. And that one
as well. So many. You wonder
what they’d be doing now.
Whether their bodies
would be whole
of broken.
Whether they’d know
the poet’s name.