Day 291

(for Hind)

I am listening for your voice
but it grows more and more faint.
You are a child in a car 
that has been fired at by a tank.
You are six.  Everyone in the car —
your cousin, your uncle, everyone —
has been killed.  I am not the woman
from the Red Crescent who stayed 
on the phone with you for hours,
who directed the ambulance 
to your car, who heard
when the ambulance was also
fired at.  I am not your mother,
who was briefly able to speak 
with you, who told you 
it was ok to wipe the blood
on your face with your dress,
which you were afraid of getting dirty.
I am a woman thousands of miles
away, months from that day.
I heard the Red Crescent worker
trying to keep you with her, trying
to keep you alive.  I heard your voice
over the phone growing softer, softer.
She knew by then that the ambulance
had been bombed, that the drivers
were dead.  That they would not
come for you.  I am a woman
who could have done nothing
for you, who is trying never
to forget you, who is listening
every day for your voice.  Afraid
I’ll lose you.  Afraid your voice
will be silenced within me.