Day 303

(from a photograph)

The child is being carried out of the shelter —
that had been a school — by a young man.
A girl — maybe seven? — one arm
wrapped in a ribbon of gauze
the young man is still
holding the other end of, as though
he had been tending to her and then
had to run quickly.  Precipitously.
The arm wrapped in gauze
hangs from the girl’s
shoulder; her other arm
laid strangely across her chest, as though
she can’t move it on her own.
A blank look on her face.  Her pink
little t-shirt, her dark red
pants.  Brown socks.  I think of her
putting them on in the morning.
Someone brushing her thick curly hair.
The noise, the stench, the lines
for the toilet, lines for bread.
Who is dead now and who still living?
Is the man her father?  Her brother?
A medical worker?  A stranger?
And where is he taking her?  And what
can they do for her?