Butterfly Effect - ressourcesfeministes

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my great-grandmother, my great-great uncle,
my great uncle and much later my mother's mother,
my grandmother all perished by their own hand.
Despair was inherited with the blood of my family.
I was the last. They came and took me away,
took me to the camps, where their final kindness
was to end the family curse. There they gassed me,
along with thousands of others. But they could not kill
my spirit, my life which lives on in the thousands
of paintings I made. The theatre of my life.
iii
My name is Anonymous. I speak for all the other
women whose names are unknown, but whose
stories reverberate around these rooms like
thunderous storms. I am not long dead,
my memories still torment me. I stand in a crowd
of tearful women, waiting and wailing. Willing
that the lives of our fathers, brothers, husbands
be spared, or if they are dead, that they did not die
cruelly. The veil of a woman screams with her expired
breath, seeing the names of those she loves on the list.
Those of us who wait, who return to wait again and again
shiver, wanting and not wanting to know.