Day 211

A surgeon speaks of a boy, eleven,
who lost his right leg.  In another time
there would have been ways of saving it;
now there are not.  The boy asks, If they
find, maybe twenty-five years from now,
a way to re-attach amputated legs, can you
save my leg somewhere so I can come 
get it?  Or maybe, he says, they’ll find
a way to grow a new leg, some medicine
they can give you to start it growing.
The boy is thinking of who he’ll be
at thirty-six.  The genocide over, the houses rebuilt.
Gardens and olive groves thriving 
in a gentle breeze that blows from the sea.
His family whole, his body whole,
he races across the sand, plunges
into the water.  The sun shines
in a clear sky.  There are no
helicopters, no drones, no warplanes.