Day 184

The children’s voices, their laughter
Their angry or delighted screeches
When we buried our friend we said how lovely
to lay him in the ground on a hillside
above a schoolyard, where he can hear
the voices of children    And of course 
it is we, visiting his grave,
who are comforted by the sounds of children playing
I am thinking now of the fetid air 
filled with open mouths
of children killed in mid-laugh, in mid-shout
I am thinking of Dashiell at his birthday today,
eight, playing on the floor with his little cousin
I am thinking of baby Dunny
sitting on the rug with Dashiell
eating steamed carrots, saying Dash and dog and dada
How his parents exult at each word
and how no words will come again
will ever come again from the mouths
of those other children