They’re all in white
dresses
as befitting young girls
raised in a convent
but the shadow of an apple tree
falls across the face
of the one standing at the end.
Their expressions are
benign as the bench
they pose from
except for this one
with barely a mien at all.
“That’s Anna Schmidt!”
shouts Klaus,
pointing to
the featureless girl.
“She’s the one
who suffocated
her young charges.”
But for now
she’s the victim:
the dark presses
hard against her face,
an ominous blur
prevents her past
from breathing.
