Abigail digs in pearls,
with painted nails and a wicker hat
shielding her from memories of a Polish sun
mottled with the snow of human ash.
Abigail toils in gold rings.
Gnarled hands carve furrows in the stony earth.
Scoop gently, then smooth, then pack
black powder inside artillery shells.
Abigail scratches her numbered wrist.
She plants Hyacinths and corpses
and roses and tears
in freshly turned graves
below her windowsill.
Abigail turns on twisted hips,
small circles around her daffodils.
Shuffling silently in two step widths,
her ankles shackled and chained.