Lisa Nanette Allender


My grandfather holds the iron cross
he pulled from a dying SS man.
We shot his legs off,
you shoulda seen
what they done—no man
should live—a man could
do that:  women and children,
Lisa, in that barn, tried
to claw their way out.

I remember
a young girl’s diary,
a mapped adolescence,
a few pale pages:
all that was left of Anne
and my youth, too.

I pick up the cross
still wrapped in tissue,
never touch it.
I want to know no part of this.
I have history enough in my head.

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