—after Käthe Kollwitz’s “The Survivors” (1923)
They are merciless, totally without pity.
And we must be all the more merciful ourselves.
—Etty Hillesum in the death camps (from Flinders’ Enduring
Lives)
We press ourselves into the frame,
our heads touching in a sea of faces,
the elderly masked in grief, others blinded,
the children huddling impossibly close
to feel the touch of the mother.
I want to cry but my mouth is pressed
into the flesh of her arm. So many crying in anguish,
or silent in their torment. But I just hold on tight
as she draws a prayer around us like a wall.
We are ready to be seen by the artist.
We want to be made visible—
our tired story—the ruins of our lives.
The artist eases our pain
as she renders her image. Nothing pretty
but everything true. The mother
holds the center and we surround her.
We long for a soft warm bosom,
no matter the deep caverns of the mother’s eyes.
She holds us as the artist shows the world
there is always more to give and to be given.
