I hold my toddler tight
In the evening before we start
her bed-time routine:
My only daughter,
Sweet Lila Joy,
not quite 3 years old.
I hold her in my lap on the rocking chair
as she eats cornbread with both hands
and curls her feet
and watches a Disney cartoon musical
we’ve seen a dozen times at least.
And through an Apple airbud
I listen with one ear
To the latest news
from Democracy Now!:
The latest news
from Gaza:
66000 children facing severe malnutrition
Hundreds already on the verge of starvation
Record numbers of child amputees
undergoing surgeries
without anesthesia
Dozens of people killed before dawn just today
Many of them
As every day now: Children
Lying asleep in their makeshift beds
or sitting on their parents’ laps
standing in line for food
or lying in the hospital for treatment
when US-Israeli bombs blasted their lives
incinerated their entire families
sheared off their limbs.
My arms around Lila,
I feel her ribcage with my fingers:
That ripple accordion of life
Up and down her side.
Her ribs, padded and buffered
as they should be,
a healthy layer of baby fat
and soft skin
beneath cozy pajama flannel.
Lila starts a big yawn,
tiny hands balling into fists,
and I feel her ribcage expand
massively against my cupped hand,
Arching and stretching to take in as much
Of this world’s air as she possibly can,
before expelling the breath
With the sweetest sigh I know.
Yes, it’s time to stop the movie for tonight.
Lila may complain a bit.
But we both know we can finish it tomorrow.