The Attic Window

Anne Frank House, Amsterdam

Peter puts his hand in mine
as we stare at the world through the window.
We can hear the wind--
what breaths of faraway men fill each gust,
their relaxed exhalations pouring into the breeze,
the sighs of a woman hooked on an arm,
the playful, weightless breath of their children--
mine on the window pane.

Peter pulls me away from the glass,
and we stand farther from the world
in case it sees us.
We are silent with tired fear.
My breath melts from the window,
dissipates little by little
like the memory of sunlight on my face.

And as we stand at the top of the staircase,
our eyes lick the attic window,
coaxing the stars in soft, honeyed prayers
to come out through dark evening clouds
as they coast by, heavy with night
and smoke-soaked from the distant
burning of people.