Day 417

The boy is five.  Both his legs are wounded.
He’s the only one left
in his family. It’s been 
weeks since the bombing
and all day he screams, sobs, 
keeps calling for his father, his father
who always came when he called him;
his father who played with him, 
sang to him, read to him.  How could his father
not listen now to his cries?  How could his cries
not be loud enough, desperate enough, 
to bring his father back from the dark
nameless place where he disappeared?  And why
did his father, who took him
everywhere, not carry him with him?
(Is it because his legs don’t work?
If his legs get better, will he 
be able to find his father?)
The sky is quiet for a moment, even
the rain and the wind have stopped.
The boy looks down the hospital corridor:
it’s night, those who are not
moaning in pain or grief
are trying to sleep.  He closes his eyes
and feels his father’s hand
on his forehead, the warmth of his body.