Day 407

The father never asked for anything
from his children — not a cup
of tea, a blanket, nothing.
This is what they like to say
about him:  the father
would give his food
to his grandchildren, would bandage
the oozing wounds of the man
next door, would give water
to the cat before drinking himself.
After the bombing, when the father
lay on the floor, and his daughter
took off her headscarf to wipe
his blood, over and over,
the father kept asking her if she
was all right.  If she was tired,
cold, sick to her stomach
from all that bleeding.  And the daughter
kept shaking her head, No, No! 
until the last of his veins
soaked the rug, until her father had
no sight, no voice, no hearing.