i
What do we do with the bodies?

How do we gather them up
or know which arm goes where?

Whose eyes are still searching?
Whose head with the delicate head tie
now sits atop a suited torso?
Which hands clasped in prayer belongs
to which kneeling body?

Whose heart is this
to whose hollowed chest does it belong?
How do we separate the babies' legs
from the sea of forearms
and calves
and thighs?

How do we return the boys to their fathers?
Who will reconstruct the jigsaw of their faces
the mangled puzzle of teeth and flesh?

What do we give back to the mothers?
Who will fish out the ears from this river of blood?
Who will travel the whole length of it
to find something whole enough to call by name?

What do we do with all these bodies

ii
The children are asleep in their beds
food provisions locked in tiny cupboards
buckets of water for their morning bath beside them
their uniforms are ironed and folded
a row of polished shoes wait at the door

They are snoring in unison
the one who sleeps sprayed out like a wishing star
or the one with her thumb clasped between her lips
even the one that lies with arms akimbo
as if preparing for a fight
above their heads the night sky is full of promise
and their dreams are safe in the hands of a God
who demands no sacrifice of young hearts

There are no nightmares tonight
the boogie man does not come
the monsters are not hiding beneath their beds
they have not broken into the school
with fury on their tongues
machete claws sharpened
teeth a row of bullets
They will not make an offering no God could ever accept
with hands stained with blood that doesn't wash
they do not line them up like cattle for slaughter
their rag doll bodies have not been piled by the dozen

The front page of the newspaper
is still the president's smiling face
the television is tuned to the entertainment channel
oil still pumps through the veins of our great country
we are not ragged with grief
we are not dragging politicians from their beds into the streets
wielding questions like batons
demanding more than wringing hands and more prayer

If we are here
not draped in black in mourning for the morning that never came
if we can still laugh loud from throats that have not been slit open
kiss our own babies on both cheeks and marvel at our good fortune
it must mean those children are still asleep
they are safe in their beds
their dreams a kaleidoscope of color
in a night sky that is still full of promise
and we are not the monsters hiding beneath their beds

iii
The history books won't remember
how a group of girls the size of a small tribe vanished
like a twisted kind of hide and seek

How we began our counting too late
imagined them giggling in their hiding places
like the games we used to play
when we were just little girls
when we were sure the someone would always find us
no matter how far we went
no matter how dark the night
If 200 is too high a number to count to
start at

1
The apple of her father's eye

2
The one with her mother's smiling face

3
The one that could've been a doctor

What if we called them by name
what if we imagined our own daughters waiting
counting on the fact that we would turn the whole world over
just to find them
counting on our numbers

If 200 is too high a number to stand with
start at

1
me

and

2
you