Is she sewing a rag, a piece of tapestry?
Is it white, is it yellow,
is it beige and tattered, with somehow
a lace border, a bright-colored band?
Is there dust in the cloth, has it been
washed over and over
is there water?
When the bomb splays near the edge of her tent
is the needle halfway through its work
on the sleeve, on the stricken skirt—
through the broken, through the noise?
Is the pain like a needle shattering in,
does the needle fly
from her hands, or stay there?
Does the bomb fit over
and in her body, entirely?