and they shall lead us
the mother stands in the open
doorway; the oldest of her children
is eight. she watches his small back
fade into the distance as he makes his way
toward water, or was it flour. she
would go herself but there are littler ones
to defend. the fighting mostly happens
at night but she can’t be sure.
he swings the buckets from his shoulders
and quietly sings to himself. he is constantly
wary, listening for the sound of motors. he is
ready to throw himself into a ditch and
play dead.
“you’re father was a brave man,” his
mother croons as she smooths the hair
from his furrowed brow. he is five.
sometimes, when he wakes in the early light,
he finds his mother asleep on the couch, t.v.
flickering, volume down, wine and small pills.
he drags his blankets from his bedroom
and covers her with care. he uses the dining
room chair to reach the cereal, carefully
pours the milk. he wishes he could understand
more words in the newspaper.
she is six. she hunts among the rubble
for fragments of metal to bring back
to brother who will melt them down
and turn them into beautiful charms
which reflect the light. the goats
playfully nibble her worn coat as
she passes through them on her way
home. the herder is always kind and
gives her treats when they cross paths.
she doesn’t know what happened to
mother or father or sister. only that brother
pulled her from the falling, burning house
and ran, carrying her into the night.
though half her life ago, she remembers
the loud noises and the echo of gunfire.
she plays with the other children
who are or were left. they scrabble along
the empty rubble-strewn streets shouting
and playing games of tag and hide-n-seek.
if you ask her, she would say she is happy.
brother takes good care of her and teaches
her letters. they trade his charms for food
and other things. on special nights, they go
to a lonely rooftop and spend the night
watching the moon and stars reel by.
