April Eighth
away they would go,
and away they went
each clutching their scant hoard of self,
whatever that still comprised:
coats and hats and photographs
and ID cards and grandmother’s jewelry
and her son’s hand
and his daughter’s chubby little legs
slung over his shoulders
away they would go,
and away they went
away from screaming sirens
and bombed-out buildings,
away from bodies in the streets
and torture in basements,
from torn throats and torn skirts
away they would go,
and away they went
they were waiting on a train
that did not come,
in a graveyard where timetables stood crosses:
their tickets punched,
their journey ended.
away they would go,
and away they went.
