I hold My Daughter’s Hand, by Steven Croft

that the physician wiped clean of smoke

and dust and I think of the time of no war

so long ago, the trips in my brother’s car

to the quiet country stream by the olive trees.

..
My daughter, I cradled you after the meal until

your cries softened, then held you and looked

for your future in the quiet stream

..

I feel her hand has grown cold, but I will not

tell them.  Days, nights, days I prayed to Allah

for the bombs to stop.  Now I am exhausted.

Bombs shake the floor but I have no prayer

left, just this hand of my daughter I hold on to.

..
My daughter, I stare now at the quiet stream

where I will wash these wounds, by the trees

I will bury you in the peace of your beginning

..

I don’t want the busy attendant to stop so

I keep my head down, look at white bandages

stained with red that wrap your chest.  All

life I have left is holding this beautiful hand.

..

..

Steven Croft is the author of two chapbooks, Coastal Scenes and Moment and Time.  He has recent poems in Politics/ Letters Live, Sky Island Journal, As It Ought to Be Magazine, and Poets Reading the News.

https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2019/09/1000-civilians-killed-syria-4-months-190904094645974.html