Red ink
on white
the
Cornell website's list
of
victims,
not blood
on cloth, but
names,
ages.
I have
known the stories,
the
numbers,
one
hundred forty six dead,
too many
to imagine.
Reading
now for research’s sake
I'd tried
to distance myself,
but my
heart falters.
I read my
own name:
Antonietta.
Sixteen
years old.
Suddenly
these girls are more
than
names on a list
more than
digital ink.
I picture
myself at sixteen:
unable to
tame Italian curls,
Papa
telling me the stories
his
Italian Mama told him.
Perhaps
she knew those same stories.
Perhaps
she too fought
with her
brother,
but loved
him all the same.
Who might
she have been,
I wonder.
What dreams did she hold
in her
heart,
and what prayers
did she think
as she
leaped?
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