Leaf
“He was never warm in his entire life. Not once.”
—Juma Gul, whose month-old son froze to death in a Kabul refugee camp (The New York Times)
In the dark the call to prayer—
the faithful huddle under plastic
and canvas bellied with snow, but
food like fire is here a dream
from which you wake to 5 a.m.
wails and beside you his body
the size of bread, whose mistake
was not staying awake, and now
like bread or the dead leaves
he is brown, not soft, his eyes
and the sun three black stones
on this grave