Basim opens his eyes from sleep,
looks up to open sky. In another poem
this might be a dream. But in this one,
splinters of wood and concrete
where his wife had slept, a gooey
wetness on his back, his bed
collapsed in a crumpled V.
For reasons he will not know
until tomorrow, he cannot get up. Tonight,
he calls out to the daughter he covered
and tucked into bed just hours ago,
she who brought his evening clothes
when he came from work, would sit close
as he watched tv, as he hoed the garden.
He calls to his wife under stars that
twinkle, silent and cold as fire.
(Read the news story that inspired this poem here.)