Day 252

What she remembers best from that night
was her niece’s long blond hair.
Maryam.  Eight years old.  She
had been put to bed by her mother
and was sleeping beside her little brother.
I do not know how to go on
telling this story.  The woman
who told it, Reem, was the one
survivor.  They had eaten, talked, read.
Gone to bed.  The zone
they were in was supposed to be
safe. Reem awakened
to find the ceiling collapsed
on top of her.  How
did she breathe?  How
did she dig her way
out?  Rock 
by rock in the dark, slab
by slab.  With what
strength?  She stood,
walked.  And then
saw Maryam, with whom
she’d been playing only hours
before. Maryam’s long
blond hair.  Straight.  Halfway
down her back.  Still brushed,
shining, the way her mother
brushed it every night before
bed, tied it so it wouldn’t 
tangle.  The tie still there.  Maryam
dead on the ruined floor
of the house, blood
streaming from her mouth
but her hair
perfect, untouched, long,
down her back.  Shining.  Not
tangled.