Day 217

Imagine a woman sitting in a tent
trying to nurse a newborn, the infant
crying a small, faint cry, more like a cat’s cry,
barely moving his thin stiff arms, small mouth
grasping the nipple, the mother herself
thin, tired, the milk barely coming.
Imagine this woman watching
her other children as they run in and out
of the tent.  They too are hungry.  She is thinking
now (as the baby suckles, pulls away, latches on
again, then resigns himself
to the absence of milk) about the garden
they used to have.  Mint,
oregano.  Spinach, lettuces and parsley.
She is thinking of long afternoons watching the sun
move from one corner of the garden to another.
The baby is sleeping now.  His head tilts back.
She puts two fingers on his tiny chest 
to make sure he is breathing.