She almost made it out
into the day light again
after years – years – without. Fingers
pressed against the pane of glass,
behind a blackout curtain. Sometimes in
front of it,
when she was feeling brave.
She thought it was safe, up so high,
the starlight on fingertips, no one would see.
But I saw. And I
told.
They marched out, in front
of soldiers’ guns, her face was
pale and eyes on fire with fear that
I caused.
A cloudy day, still I saw it all.
Sometimes after,
walking on the street below, I would
look up at the window, and
even decades later, I would see
with my two [very good] eyes
her palm print on the glass.
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