Day 554

A child stood on the stones
where her house had been,
looking west at the sunset,
singing a song as she watched
the sky change.  She made
her song of the names
of all her sisters and 
brothers, her uncles 
and an aunt, her grandfather’s
name and her two grandmothers
and the grandfather who had died
before she was born, whose name
she’d heard every day
from her father, his son,
whose name was also in her song.
Only her mother’s name was not
there because her mother
was still alive.  Every name
in her song was the name of one
gone:  who by bombing, who by
sniper’s bullet, who by sickness,
who by hunger, who by fire, who
by thirst.  The child was singing
a dirge, a litany of belonging,
of a family that had been whole
and hers.  She was singing it
to the sun as it melted
into the water, water streaked
blood red with its
dissolving … She was singing it
for the first silver stars
appearing, who seemed
to pulse in rhythm with the names.