It opened with glissandi, repeated sweeps of fingers across
Keys, but like waves seen from a distance, making their way
Along the shore, the machine guns that ripped through the village
Can no longer be heard. Even the church bell lies on the floor of the
Sanctuary, tongue melted to the cheek of its mouth like the fingers
Of Thomas pressing the holes in Christ’s side in order to
Believe. Batter-batter, batter-batter, we’d all start to chatter
When someone on the other team got up to bat. The deep red dye
Made from wild madder, when eaten, turned the bones
Of animals red, the claws and beaks of birds, too, and cloth dyed
With madder was used to wrap Egyptian mummies. By candlelight
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In the Villa des Brillants, Rodin loved in the evenings to linger
With his fragments of ancient statues—hands, heads, fingers,
Arms, and feet—because they held some trace of a former
Life. He cast small nude female bodies in white clay and placed them
In antique terracotta pots: we still watch them struggle to climb out
Of the past. Before they were taken out to be executed, the women held
In Ravensbrück put on lipstick, pinched their cheeks, and arranged
Each other’s hair. The women and children of Oradour-sur-Glane
Tried to escape from the village church after the soldiers shut
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The doors, set fire to the building, and began to shoot. Only one
Woman escaped, broke glass and climbed out of the window behind
And above the altar, the stone altar now pitted by the rounded heads
Of bullets, niches into which you can place the tip of your forefinger as if
You were waiting at a counter, in quiet light, about to be fingerprinted.
Angie Estes