Ode to S,: from Beer Sheva with sutures

Dedicated to a little boy, who was safely kept on the ward, and then left back, to an unknown or known destiny, I am not sure.

A bullet had hit
Your fifth thoracic vertebrae.
Blood had pooled in your chest.
You were scooped by the army
To our hospital.
Were you going to live?
The answer lingered
with the forceps, Kelly clamp,
scalpel blade
And Richardson retractor.

Your name: unknown.
Your anatomy: known quiet well!
Your condition: unknown.

Today, you move your arms,
Walk to the bathroom,
Speak very few words.
"You stupid, lift your arm,
"Your stepfather screams at you,
While helping you shower.
I, the medical student,
Stand outside of the bathroom.
He later says he loves you.
My eyes consolidate
Your silent hazel eyes,
"Does he really?"

"The IDF wants to send him back,
Not his first incident of trying to escape,"
Proclaims a doctor the verdict today.

"His father beats him,"
says the stepfather.
The mother's will to keep him
fades away,
She lives in Yaffo,
Loving him from far only.

S: We send you back to Deir El Balah.
Nobody can return with you,
Except those sutures,
gauzes and staples.
Will you ever read those words,
little boy, And know that you are cared about:
Love knows no borders
Though Deir El Balah and Beer Sheva might.