Day 449

(from a photograph)


They huddle on filthy blankets
in the remains
of what may have been a hallway
in the hospital, three children — brothers? —
sitting close together, the oldest
holding the youngest, who is maybe
fourteen, fifteen months.  The hospital
is being bombed again, has been bombed
for days.  Eighteen more killed, twenty.  Who knows
where these children’s parents are, or how
they have died?  Their eyes
are startled, hollow, terrified.  The youngest
clutches his brother’s jacket; his brother
is pulling him close, their faces
touching, the toddler’s mouth
slightly open in a cry or a whimper.
The middle brother has his hand
over his mouth — to stifle a sound?
To soothe himself?  There is such
love among them, such tenderness.
The oldest boy, who could be
nine, has promised his brothers
that he will be father to them, mother,
doctor, teacher, everything.  He will care for them
through bitter cold and explosions,
until fire, shrapnel, hunger, a sniper’s bullet
comes to claim them. 
Until no one can care for anyone anymore.