She lies amongst the rubble barely breathing; left for dead.
A dirty gray rag bound around her bleeding, ancient head.
Desert colors lie within her folds of leathered skin.
Missing teeth suck her mouth to a mere suggestion
Between promontories of her nose and chin.
Lazy flies roam her face, flick up every trace of moisture there.
She holds no strength to fend them off.
Rescuers find her. Compassionate arms raise her up.
From a plastic bottle with a built-in straw, the gift of life is given.
Elegant, grimy fingers reach to hold the bottle as a baby's would.
With no thought or intention amongst that bombed-out hell and desolation
Her little finger extends and crooks itself, in a manner no different from dowagers
Who nibble petit fours and sip from china teacups at the Ritz.

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