Just Here
On the hospital floor, a boy, maybe three, sits there.
Holds his hand out for his brother to see where
there’s a mark on his palm and what can it be.
His brother, maybe eight, doesn’t move, doesn’t see.
Blood streaks his face and ash coats his hair.
The toddler stares at the mark on his palm, there.
Looks at his other hand, holds it out to compare.
Nothing. That hand is how it should be
when you’re a boy, maybe three, on the hospital floor
with your brother, maybe eight, and Gaza is bare.
Is it dirt or a wound, his hand rests on air.
He stares at his hand. His mother, who is she.
Every woman, all of us, all of us could be.
His fingers curl in, his fingers curl out there.
A boy, maybe three, on the hospital floor.
© Janet Hatherley
First Prize Winner in the 2025 Enfield Poets’ Poetry Competition