Day 239

Hard to remember that the moon 
is the same moon that hung in the sky
hours ago over Gaza,
that a woman there might have looked up
as I did just now, not thinking
to see it, search for it, and been surprised,
as I was, at its sharpness, its brightness.
What kind of day did she live
before the moon found her
in that way?  Did she gather weeds
to make some kind of soup
for her children?  With what
water?  Did she wrap her children
in her own clothing, to keep them warm
through the night?  Did the hours bring news
of someone she loved who was killed?
Did she sweep the thin floor of her tent
with a broom she’d made from scraps
of paper, because keeping out dust
is something she could do, and do it again?