Day 974

This mother was nursing her infant
with the thin, bluish milk
of famine. This mother
was feeding her two-year-old
watery soup, some slices
of carrot drifting among
a few beans. This mother
was walking toward her tent
when the bomb fell
on the hard ground
she stepped on, her legs
blown across the field,
the wood she’d been carrying
scattered. Her children
waiting: hungry, frightened.
This mother was sick
with an illness that could have been
cured, had there been
medicine. Her children
sat on the floor of the tent
around her for days, watching her
cough, holding wet cloths
to her forehead
to soothe the fever. Now
her body is cold. Now
there’s nothing more
they can do for her.
The oldest one covers
her mother’s face
with the blanket stained
with blood from her lungs.
Steps outside for a moment,
holds the tent’s flap open
so the night air, foul though it is,
can start to mitigate
the smell of death.