Anne Frank’s Diary Speaks

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.