I follow her story only in part,
like a man looking from a lit room at dark
hills, silhouetted against navy skies—
his own staring face superimposed by
a ghostly glare from the light of the room.

At her story’s crux, Timkat lays down her broom
and in an overflow of English says:
You father, doctor, dead. You brother, dead.
You mother, konjo, konjo—beautiful—dead.
You, Why? Why? Why?
She turns and drops her head.

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