She wakes in her camp:
a small apartment.
She raised her son, all the sons--
Battalions of bones underground.
She played the flute, danced
in great halls--before. A sky
darker than night, heavy on her city.
She wakes to blood melting. She queues
with her people for chunks of black.
She believes there will be trials.
There is a photograph.
Potsdam: smiling, confident, well fed.