I. Lesson

Berlin hums beneath my skin. The windows sweat.
A train moves east through frost and signal-light.
I write a line and lock it in a desk
where names are folded out of sight.
They tended me with razors and a bowl
then called me Joan and washed me clean of hair:
the blade cooled down; the water kept me whole.
I learned how names are borne, but not repaired.
I rode the war on borrowed light,
a Red ghost jumping boxcars with the news,
the folded paper in my coat at night,
a faded truth I carried—and abused.
Return to them. Return where orders start,
where mothers sing and break the soldiers’ hearts.

II. Proof

I watched their hunger gather like a choir,
the stairwells loud with breath and lifted hands.
They wanted truth the way a city wants a fire—
not light, but proof that order holds command.
They came in packs, their chanting loud as law,
the hallways ringing ribs and booted breath.
The room took heat; the men were made to draw
a line between obedience and death.
I went with them. I felt the iron sing.
My hands were clean. They did not shake.
The fire raged and cost us everything;
we fed it names until the night would break.
No mercy followed. Only this remained:
we burned the night, then asked it to be named.