She Was Anne

Written by: Bernadette Langer

her name was Anne 
and she wrote dreams 
upon pages; 
the kind that roam around your mind 
but are always held deep 
inside your chest;

and she heaved 
under the weight of tears 
left uncried 
and so many truths 
left unsung; 

her name was Anne 
not of Green Gables 
but of Gestapos and Gettos; 
not summer getaways 
but of guards and gates; 

she was Anne of raven hair
with faraway eyes, 
on spindly legs 
running towards
a woman's curves; 

but the hook of her nose 
told heritage tales, 
that they numbered
with hate
upon her youthful arm;

yet she still dreamed 
and wrote, 
of longings and yearnings 
of the future; 
with simplistic thoughts
not comprehending 
her reality; 

her pen flew across pages, 
filled with hope, 
yet inked in sadness; 
and the winds blew the sheets 
upon the prejudice
that surrounded her; 
without effect

she was Annie to parents 
who saw only the past 
of a little girl 
with shiny new shoes 
pink bows 
and capped teeth; 

the shoes went into piles, 
bows flew upon the breeze 
and the teeth 
shone only in fillings 
of melted gold 
instead of smiles; 

she was the promise
of a woman's secrets, 
yet to be revealed 
and enjoyed, 
upon silken thighs; 
with desired weight 
pressing love 
upon waiting lips; 

she was humanity 
destroyed by 
inhumanity; 
as the world watched 
little girl tears 
float away, 
into subconsciousness,
where we didn't have to
feel them or hear 
their weeping moans; 

she was a star 
from the family of David; 
an outcast now 
from society 
that deemed her unworthy; 
outlined by the yellow blaze 
as the star 
burnt itself out; 

and she called to her God 
without blame 
for he was good and kind; 
and man... 
well man was man, 
so unlike her God; 

her name was Anne 
and she pressed her face 
upon the panes of our illusions; 
breaking through the 
shaded barriers 
that we ourselves 
had forged; 

but too late for Anne 
did we see the truths; 
and now she remains 
forever young 
in our minds; 
but dead to our 
world; 

and her pages 
are all that speak; 
her hushed whispers 
grown finally loud; 
we hear her voice 
and feel at last
her tears, 
as they slide down 
those precious pages 
to become 

our own...