For Mian Yahya Youssef Al-Astal, Age 0

 


Muslin of the swaddle, cloth

Of the diaper, the thin veneer of 

A sleeper shirt. The gauze of the 

Bandage wrapped around your

Head. Blooming the color of desiccated

Rose. Tenderest thing. Fine

Storm of silk-black hair, finger

Nails still soft, booties knitted

By an auntie. Shrapnel ripping

Through your skull under hail

Of quadcopter. 

I remember how softly

I would place my daughter 

In her crib, white noise & owl

Song down the creek’s spine.

Shiver of cold, snow in swale

Against the windowpane, her 

Curled mouth comforted in sleep.

We tucked her to our chests

Under parkas to walk, thirty

Below, under canopied starlight, 

Under pluming frigid breath. 

It was her only avenue to sleep. 

Taking her warm & slow from my body

To lay her upon her mattress

& watching her eyes for proof

She yet slept. Her breathing, in,

Her breathing, out. Creeping the blanket

Up to tiptoe away. Her soft

Murmuring of the morning when

The clip of sun shrugged the darkness

Over the ridgelines. Mian,

I sing your name today. 


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