this child filling the screen Wednesday at the gym where I’m trying to fit in a 35 minute ride on the recumbent bike before the place closes because earlier tonight I dropped $84 on dinner— ricotta and truffle crepes, two drinks with elderflower, three-layer mousse cake for dessert, a burrata to start, and now here I am three miles into going nowhere, the little girl sitting on the examination table in a flowered shirt and pants, her hijab like a frame around her face, the way a surgeon will mark off a part of the body with surgical drapes in order to foreground it, the surgical field, this child I must gaze on if I am to retain my membership in the human family, the journalist detailing the family’s struggle to find help, the doctor lifting the little girl’s shirt over her head to reveal the living horror, this child with a face scored by horror—eyes sunken, skin lined, a five-year old who looks older than me by a decade. And of her wasted body, how does she manage to sit upright, silent and uncomplaining, looking into the camera with a weariness beyond what should be possible, no tears, no accusations, no “Amy, why did you let this happen to me?” the articulation of each bone as if the doctor lifted her shirt to reveal an actual birdcage— that’s literally what she looks like— a little girl with a human head and a torso as if she has swallowed some terrible contraption, as if someone soldered together a bucket of scrap iron and then carefully stretched too little skin over the results. The President boasts that his son-in-law has brokered a deal to sell $110 billion worth of equipment to the Saudis. The news show closes with a black screen stating that since the start of hostilities, 20,000 Yemeni have died. The journalist says he does not know what happened to this little girl. The UN says 7,000,000 people in Yemen are in imminent danger of famine. I say fuck the world. Fuck me for participating in it.