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.
I want to say the dead are not fated
to lasting death. Since in death we’re translated
into glory, life that seems uncanny.
It’s there in her name, TimkatEpiphany.
Instead, I say, I’m sorryAznalo.
She stoops to grab her broom. I rise to go.
And though I barely see her story’s trace,
like the hills, she seems to wear my face.
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