A child—yellow pants, toddler’s pants—
stained, smudged, curled at the cuff, 
and smock, bright red fringe. Bare feet—
left toes curling downward, big toe 
raised. Eyes, lined dark. Like yearned-for 
slumber. Curly, wet, unwashed hair. 
Arms pulling tight beneath her chin, 
against her neck. She looks to the camera, 
as if to say, I am tired now, take 
your photo, take your time, I am held. 
But don’t look behind—rifles, 
machine guns, grenades—barrels 
upright and blunt and cold against 
the stucco wall. Solid, desert stocks. 
Or the street—hard-dirt, bottles, 
two shirts, blue plastic bags, a wooden 
table, a book forlorn on its top, a black 
appliance on its tipped-up end. But Gee. 
Her face as she holds the child, unlined, 
though tired—hint of folds beneath 
the eyes. Lips closed—like the child’s—
trace of dimple on a cheek—like 
the child’s, though the child’s from 
pressure of wrist and hand—and eyes,  
eyes for the camera. And she does not 
say, look at me, for I am holding 
a child I’ve never seen before, a child 
I’ve taken up to comfort, to honor here. 
Here in—where? Her eyes do not say, 
look at me for I am special. Those eyes, 
green, ringed in blue—oval eyes—
hair above them slicked and tied—
business hair, businesses there of helmet 
and heat and steel. Of child. Of bomb. 
Her eyes say—record this for me, this 
pleasure, this moment of order, of calm.