August 2nd

I did not write about the Porajmos today
because my grandmother
had said enough.
Enough to let my hair out of its braids
and tuck my diklho into
my pocket
Enough for all of us to check
the forms of our hands,
to count our fingers,
to reach inside our mouths
to make sure our teeth were still there
Enough.
Someday, when it is not enough,
I will shout.

Tonight, after everybody has gone to bed,
one lit candle,
for everybody.
If there were enough candles, this whole city would burn,
This whole region,
The continent.

There are lists of names, ones I have not even learned yet,
beaten into my sternum.
Just this:
I love you. I am not dead yet. So neither, then, are you.