At the funeral I, embarrassed by resistance fighters
shuffling up to shake my hand
I fold your daughter in a white napkin—
With these brief gifts
you go, my doorslamming wife; and I, a fool, live.
But the voice I don't hear when I speak to myself is the clearest voice:
When my wife washes my hair, I kiss
between her toes, my lips tremble,
in the empty streets of our district, a bit of wind
calls for the life which no one knew, a life
which daily takes all of us, my neighbor taken, his children
taken, their apartment quiet. I say
their apartment quiet, on the floor
dirty snow from their boots.