Day 466

It was her voice
she first noticed was lost
under the rubble.  No way
to call to her neighbors,
Find me!  Save me!  I’m here.
She lies wedged between
fallen blocks of concrete,
her chest so crushed
she can’t breathe enough air
to make a sound.  What
she can move
is one hand, which
she turns back and forth,
like someone signaling
“stop,” then “come here.”
It’s late afternoon, still light
enough for a while
for the hand to be seen.
She hears the voices
of those she knows
about to give up the search,
listens as though she were listening
from another world to the sounds
of the living.  She turns her hand
faster, faster, and someone’s eye
catches the movement — a trapped
bird?  a torn scrap of paper
blown by the wind? — 
and someone else shouts,
It’s a hand!  And then two, five,
seven people are in there, digging,
lifting the fallen walls caging her,
pulling her out:  hand, arm,
six year old body.  She is surprised,
when, held by a neighbor,
she finally starts crying,
to hear her own voice again.