She rides a cart,
medal on brown coat, small hat on head;
she mocks the crowd, waving.
Memory. Loss. She is both, she will
harbour both under her ribs, excavate
whatever else was there. A tight hermetic grief
too close for sunlight to slide through, too spare
for narrative cleverness, a quiet seepage,
as if under her dress
her breasts leaked blood.
Beside her,
waving flags,
some small serious children
who are not hers.