For she marked the date June
12, 1942, her miniscule habitat
in lieu of dying. But you will only know
the parchment of her skin, the broken
and fragmented days between
heaven, hate and back again
those far-reaching matters of genocide
that seized her thin frame and glowing
heart. I knew her well, long years together
and apart enduring the horrors of war,
Her vellum soul inked, bookcase
yellowed, soft voice unforgotten
as it bellowed silent from the annex;
an underground love like a hidden
weapon stored in the labyrinth
of hollows, hollows, hollows.
Dear sanctuary girl, sanctuary girl,
her tattooed story etched on checkerboard
tome− words held secret withstanding
parades of Holocaust angled crosses,
clockwise bent, swastikas pacing
murky streets, sweet penned being
denying death, her hand unrelenting
extraordinary child, beautifully wild
unstoppable thing, despite how she wept,
how she wept, how she wept, where
no consequence could thwart memories
divinely kept. Oh Anne, you’re alive
in your letters, chronicled from home through
the house beyond bones, empty shoes
and body piles. Your entries robbed
cloud high still unwritten, lost cries
from a visceral place. Goodness diarized
past your nameless betrayer; coward Nazi
from an ominous space, anonymous,
anonymous, anonymous.