The Zero Point

burns its small hole
in the tent
where 3 lines on paper
have just been written down,

the pen is lifting off
as the missile
hits, the zero point
where you call

into the face of
your child
which does not move,
the zero

of its lid you’re pushing up

seeking the gaze –
just look
at me, look
back at me its father is

screaming, the zero
where he only finds
a hand, a part
of the arm, where he picks them up –

they are still warm,
he holds the hand in his hand – the zero
where he must
let go, where the hand

must be taken

away – there is still wind –
the children are still asking for
some ice, the one u loved most
turns to u again now

in the sun saying we
have strawberries, we’ve found
shoes which fit
both of the girls, we

are walking under trees –

where are the trees –

us thinking soon
we will take shelter
with people we
know. A day is not

unerasable.
The smell of the sea
nearby.
Here’s his foot now

in this dust.
The fire picks it out.
It looks like
it’s running.

Hold your tongue, fire.

Hold your fire.

Let my boy run.