Day 275

(Gaza City)

Do you think nothing remains of these lives?
Here was the university.  Here
was a room where students talked
about poetry, where someone once
was so moved by a phrase, a line,
that she went home and started writing.
Do you think her writing will not be read?
Here was a café where people came
every morning.  Here was a playground,
a tree-lined street where children
walked in twos, threes, on their way
to school.  Here was a window, a door,
where a mother stood and said goodbye
to her son, whom she never would see again.
Here was the bed he slept in, here
the drawers where he kept his clothes.
Do you think he is forgotten?
Someone told me today
that as soon as the bombing of the hospital
stopped, the doctors
took what rags they could find
and began cleaning, cleaning.  
All night, many nights,
the doctors cleaned. Do you think
they wouldn’t do it again?  Do you think
they won’t find whatever there is
to take in their shattered hands,
begin wiping away the blood,
the torn pieces of flesh?