At any moment, the soldiers could arrive.
At any given second, Sarajevo could surrender.
One could give up as well the nuisance of surviving.
At any moment, a precise second might claim you.
At any decisive point, God might not give a damn.
You’re there, in that city. You don’t count. You’re not history.
In my own bed of down and vintage linen,
beside an altar of Buddhas and Madres Dolorosas
and lace and Storyville mirrors,
I’m here. Awake from the bad dream.
I’m a woman like you.
I don’t count either.
Not a thing I say.
Not a thing I do.