Eleonore Blaurock-Busch
Germany

I miss my people and my home,
but don’t send me back. I don’t have a passport,
no papers. Dad gave them to my husband-to-be,
the one who couldn’t take me now,
and I am not sad about it.

I am crying about my sister.
They cut her up, sewed her tight
and her fat, old husband, he likes them young,
you know what he did . . .
She bled to death that night. She was twelve.

These are sacred customs, Dad said
and troublemakers don’t last long.
I knew what he meant,
ran away, right after the funeral.
Mother gave me money.

I hitchhiked, went into hiding,
took trains, boats—paid with everything,
everything!
I’ve told you almost all that happened,
you wouldn’t want to know more.

If you send me back, they cut me up like her
or kill me, which is the same.
I can’t go back. I broke the law,
I am fourteen
and I shamed them.