My sister./Torn Behind the wire..
Gretel is staring- hung with too loose skin. Bones like scaffolding; as the sun tries from behind thin cloud, fighting another cold morning from some place far away. We force ourselves to wake, as suffering pours in; blue skin huddled together, legs and arms wrapped like thin pallets of wood on unsteady frames. Bones poured against each other, fragile as we break. The morning misery- the others, near and far - low moans growing into an orchestral hum- like pock marked hungry cattle lowing at some relentless grave. Rags concentrated . We the shattered fragments, of what is left. Unfamiliar remnants clinging one to another, amongst strangers, needing boundaries and never feeling safe. So I look to the window, past the frost, towards the late autumn draining away. Soon will come the hard cold. When the earth is immoveable . Instantly I feel guilty. Gretel is younger than me, she is too sick to run. She takes my bread, and I scavenge for it to give freely. It;s what our mother would have wanted, in better times, when there was warmth.. When there was more than just the two of us. Before the brightly buttoned and highly polished men, and all the good memories were gone..So I must decide. But to take a chance at the wire, to survive? I know that Gretel must stay.
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