We leave so much behind,

especially the mothers

who can only pack

what will fit in the space

that spans between

two shoulder blades. 

Name, phone number, 

address sharpied 

down the spines 

of toddlers, who know 

life in fragments 

of empty rooms 

and suitcases

that can’t quite zip, 

     the bombing had begun. 

My brother’s body 

once disappeared 

into a crowd,

announcements

flying overhead.

Brought to tears, 

I found him at the blue

lost-and-found bin

among other frayed things,

the repeated pleas 

for a button-eyed corduroy bear, 

the chicken coop where we searched 

for rollie-pollies under rocks, 

the plot of land 

for my grandfather 

with no one left 

to tend. 

The mothers 

ink memories into skin–– 

remember who you are, 

they tremble, 

the ripe raspberries

and the bite 

of summer breeze,

     the bombing had begun.