We stroll the souk from stall to stall,
chattering happily my child and I;
she rushes ahead to the oranges,
her hand tenderly stroking the dimpled skin,
pulling one to her nose
to inhale its luscious tropic fragrance.
Turning back to gaze at me, she beams like a sunfire.

In a lightening flash she’s in bits and pieces,
scattered, flung hard
on razored shards
of glass and paving stones ―
the market square
of two minutes ago.

Sucking ragged breaths     stone still in place     my mouth agape     no sound escapes.
But my eyes ―
these two disbelieving chasms searing hot ―
My eyes scream for her.

Where is she?  I am her mother
yet I do not recognize
these disparate parts. 
Where is her veiled silken hair,
brushed nightly to our soothing cadence
of recited prayer?

Where is her smile
among this Babel?
Does this acrid breeze
I cannot feel
carry the notes
of her melodic laughter?

Does her precious heart’s
joy now comfort another’s soul
in this blackened hell,
my child, this innocent girl
who grew cell by cell,
bit by piece within me?