wrapped in rough fabric in slanted light,
hollow, wire frame pressed tight,
beaded spine resting in the space between,
like a bowl-backed mandolin that no longer plays
the music gone still.
soon silent.

only this is no instrument.
he’s a child.
an empty-bellied, innocent child.
a dying child.
his mother there too, eyes closed...
in prayer?
in defeat?
in suspension of disbelief?
the unreal reality of us closing our eyes 
to him,
his frail body, 
his fledgling hair, 
the delicate loops and whorls of his crown -- 
a fingerprint of our hands-on, hands-off approach to people
in this war
between 
the right ways and wrong ways to occupy land
between 
the right ways and wrong ways to worship god
between
the right ones and wrong ones to care about
to support
to feed
to lend aid
to weaponize
to fire bomb
to shoot in the street as they try not
to starve

this is a picture of a mother holding her child
not an instrument 
of war
please may the war stop.
not the music of this little boy's heart.