Day 446

She has buried her husband, her sister,
a child.  Now she must bury another child.
Just yesterday she was brushing his hair.
Just yesterday she went out to find food
for him, leaving him with her one child,
the eldest, who’s still alive.
She found a little bread, put it
into his mouth the way one would feed
an animal or a bird. She remembers the feel
of his wet lips on her fingers, and this
she promises herself never to forget. Her daughter,
the eldest, stands next to her in the rain
as she lays the child in a white shroud
into the earth.  Rain falls on him
as he lies there, insects scurry
through newly shoveled dirt.  They may
live with him there or find their way
back up into the light.  They alone, she thinks,
are free to come and go.  She looks
at her daughter, who has lost a father,
an aunt, two brothers.  With each one
buried, the mother thinks, she’s lost
part of me too.  She thinks of the dark ground,
receiving some all at once, wrapped in white cloth,
and some, like herself, wrapped only in grief,
a little at a time.