Hidden in the small flame
I will remember

My father is looking for your father
They know they drove nails through everyone’s

Hands
Words, not my own

Hidden in the small flame
I called

Whore mark
Hair Fragrance
Dry feet
If you remember

I admire you
I was very small

When it comes to me
Press your hands on the ground

I accept night
You must remember

These low, these tears are for you
Hidden in the small flame

Written in response to Big Tent Poetry’s Monday Prompt for 21 March 2011, though I used Google Translate.

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