I write of lives in indices,

Scenes sketched within margins

Of halts for breath in sentences,

Of freedom in parenthesis

In our secret garden,

I write of lives in ink;

Hers inscribed in water

In quiet apocalypse

Others would call order,

I write of lives,

Their curve in words

At boundary lines

To disinter,

“I”, write

I, not to please,

But for all interred I’s

I write of lives in indices,

Those only angels heard.

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch