Day 380

In the hospital courtyard the tents are burning.
A mother and her son lie dead, 
wound together in the shroud of their tent.
What they had been living in
has become their grave.  Their bodies
indistinguishable from one another
except for the gold necklace 
the mother had worn, by which
what remains of her can be identified.
No hands no feet no face no eyes no words.
They will not walk again across the stones.
They will not sit and speak with the others.
Their bodies are merged in death
as they were merged
when the boy was in the womb 
sharing his mother’s blood.   
The sky overhead that was filled with birds
is filled with drones.  The tents burn and burn,
their smoke blurs the October moon.