Day 273

What can I promise you, child
born in a tent in Rafah
at the end of June, 2024?  Your mother
is crying: her milk is thin.  There is
no medicine for her pain.  No
medicine that can insure
that you will breathe until nightfall
and wake to breathe again
tomorrow.  You who are born
of dreams and horror.  You whose skin
is still soft from the womb.
You who shelter resistance
in your house of bone.  You
who look up at the stars
for the first time and see
the gone generations,
those whose love you bring
into these corridors of devastation.