Day 404

He stands on a table
while his mother tries a jacket on him
that she’s making, with shells
she’s found on the beach
for buttons.  The child — maybe
twenty months old — raises his arms
so his mother can pull it off
over his head.  She measures it
carefully, steps back, looks
at her son.  It’s a scene
that could happen anywhere —
a mother seeing if what she’s made
will fit her child, will be snug
enough, soft enough — but this
is happening in a tent, the table
made by a man who was killed, the shells
having to do for buttons since
there are no buttons — This
is happening in an hour
between bombings, in a quiet moment
when the mother remembers
what it has been to be the mother
of her children, when the child
can know he is cared for, held.
No one can say if they’ll live
to see the jacket hemmed, the shells
secured with thread to the fabric.
No one can say if the sleeves
the mother is starting, now, to sew
will keep the child warm
as he dies, will be soaked 
with blood.