There is no shelter like this in my memory.
No flicker of light through a bullet hole.
No child’s cry next to the hiss of a propane tank.
But I read she brought soup
to a room filled with strangers.
That she poured it without a word.
That somewhere outside,
a drone blinked like an eye
searching for grief it hadn’t yet recorded.
What we know:
She used her last lentils.
What we don’t:
If she made it home.
I am not there.
But I am haunted by her steam.
