Little Girl

Her blank eyes drag along a dirt floor.
Her small feet are bare and cut.
There falls, from her
quivering lip, tiny whimpers—
like a dog lost and hungry.

The tears she cries she wipes away
and licks from the palm of her hand,
still her stomach aches with emptiness,
an emptiness she can’t overcome.

Her dreams are an infrequent salvation.
Her sleep is unsoft and fleeting.
She shakes, from her
dusty hair, night’s requiem—
like a doll left far behind.

Where her brother is, she can't remember.
Where her sister is, she doesn't know.
Her father is underground someplace,
and her mother . . . .

Those tears she cries she wipes away
and licks from the palm of her hand,
still her heart aches with emptiness,
an emptiness the world turns away from.

(From the book Kairos)