The hand moves across the page of its own accord.
The first years are a yellow field, and a child singing
through her crib bars.
Yours, the windblown canola between the curtain and hope.
Mine, the languor of peony in a time unknown to us.
You wanted only to retrieve a few invisible souvenirs:
words spoken by coals in a tile oven,
empty iron benches wrapped in snow.
Anna said we were all to be sent: Poles, Romanians, Gypsies.
So she drew her finger across her throat.