Day 448

(from a photograph)

 
The father is holding his baby,
who froze to death.  His arms
tenderly cradle the infant, whose size
is no bigger than a loaf of bread,
a parcel of books. He tried
everything he could
to warm her but cold
overtook her.  The brim
of the father’s hat
casts a shadow over his face,
but the shadow is deeper than that,
more vast than the size of his baby,
older than the weeks the baby lived.
The baby lived!  She suckled, cried.
Made small cooing sounds, looked out
at the shadowy world around her.
Her eyes met her father’s eyes.
Her perfectly swirled ears
knew the thunder of bombing,
desperate voices, screams
but also laughter.  Her father
laughed with her; this too
is etched into his face
but only as memory.  You can see it
in the way he closes his lips, 
that never again will open
to speak to her, that will only
slowly begin to release
the infinite syllables of mourning.