Day 234

Forty-five killed in tents in Rafah.  Tents
pieced together from torn clothing,
plastic bags, anything they could find.
Tents that had swayed gently in the occasional breeze.
Tents that had almost begun to feel like home.
(Child who lay between her parents in the night
marked by the endless sound of drones, still
hearing their breathing.  Walls
of the tent opaque, but she watched the first
morning light bring the colors back:  orange,
green, yellow.)  Now there is nothing
but blood, flesh ravaged and strewn
in the dust.  No breath no
cloth no voice no colors.  How almost cruel
this daylight feels, sweeping the ground….