The Photograph

The magazine picture xeroxed a duplicate print 
            in my brain. Its caption Mother 
            cradles child dying of starvation 
turned my thumb toward the page corner 
            but her burned paper eyes insisted 
            without hope or pity on mine. 
I wondered if his spidery legs had ever been 
            chubby and tried to believe 
            it was not the same for her 
as it would be for me that skin and hair 
            and geography or non-vitamin expectations 
            or her own hard hunger might numb her. 
Still there was the angle of her arms. 

Though it was weeks before I carried my son 
            to the steps for September to cool him 
            draped across me blond head larger 
and heavy as stone his skin scorching mine 
            sun-marked legs and arms suddenly thin 
            she crouched beside me beseeching Allah 
and antibiotics knowing their limitations 
            watching the patterns of delicate bones 
            searching the dreadful peace 
of early evening for a flight of small birds. 

Now I weep for her son, remembering the hours 
            empty milk cartons weren’t toys 
            dangerous things lay in low places 
all day the gate to the street gaped open.