Day 443

A father carries his baby son
out of the hospital.  This morning
he dressed this child
in a little striped t-shirt, long
sleeves, blue pants.  Now the t-shirt
is stained with blood, pants
stained with blood, the child’s
head split open on one side.
The father tenderly carries his son,
lifts one of his legs, an arm:
limp, when only this morning
the child had been crawling
around the tent, laughing.
Laughing!  The day has passed.
The father walks through the rubble, 
cradling his son.  It’s night.
It’s raining.  He takes off
his jacket, wraps
his son in it to keep him dry
and warm, whose body already
is growing cold.  How
can he lay this child
in the hard ground?
How can the life
that was in him
be cold and gone?  How
can his son be dead
who never even learned to walk?