A cold rain comforts the sky.
Everything ash-colored under clouds.
I take my place in the crowd,
move without will as the procession moves,
a gray wave breaking against the street.
Up ahead, one hundred and forty seven
coffins float, wreckage of lives. I follow
the box without a name. In it
whose hand encloses whose heart? Whose mouth
presses the air toward a scream?
She is no one, the one I claim
as sister. When the familiar is tagged
and taken away, she remains.
I do not mourn her. I mourn no one.
I do not praise her. No one
is left to praise. Seventy years after
her death, I walk in March rain behind her.
She travels before me into the dark.