This is where we place the fingertips of the children we lost to sharp knives, to guns, to bombs. See, they fit so neatly in rows in this vestibule, these dusky blue reminders of what’s become so broken. Such tiny fingernails. The crescent moon in each is receding, as if it’s drifting far, far away, taking a child with it, over the fence that surrounds the pocked yard, up past the clouds. The light’s gone out, it’s been shot out, the shrinking moon hiding its face behind those fingertips.