Day 966

A father bends over the body
of his six-year-old daughter.
He bends and rocks, the movement
accompanying his weeping.
His child lies still. More still
than she has ever been.
Now she will never tell him again
about her day. About the birds
she saw or the wild mint
she discovered growing
in spite of everything.
Now the mint will continue
to grow and she won’t
come anymore to pick its leaves.
Now she won’t need
the shoes her cousin
passed down to her,
or the quilt
her grandmother made,
which they carried
from one displacement
to another. Now
he will never call to her
to come inside the tent
and eat the small meal
of lentils and rice
she never complained about.
Now he will speak her name
over and over and only
the empty air
will stir, undetectably, in response.