Day 972

All the rest of her life
she’ll remember
the night before it happened:
an ordinary night. Soup
for dinner, the same soup
they’d been having for months.
A little bread. Two oranges
they’d opened and pulled out
the slices: one slice
for each of the family
around the table. They
had a table. They had
dishes and cups. They had
more than most, and
they knew it. All the rest
of her life she’ll remember
the game they played
after dinner, the walk outside
just before bed, since
the evening was mild.
The moon nearly
still full, though
beginning to wane; its light
between branches of trees
that still stood. And then
the bombing: everything
changed. Around her,
nothing but fallen
walls, blood, bits
of flesh. Flesh of her
parents, her brothers, her sisters.
Nine years old
and the only survivor.
Everyone dead. Everyone
silenced. No one, no one.
No one to hear her cries.