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, konjobeautifuldead.
You, Why? Why? Why? She turns and drops her head.