The Dove of Vukovar

There is one woman.

She has been split by men
whose brains, bellies, testicles are eaten
by worms; who, with gun in hand, become sacks
of shadow and ash for their trade
with death; who are made blood
brothers on the dull, rusty blade
of revenge.
The child in her blooms
like nightshade: lovely to look at,
wild of habit, deadly if eaten.
The soldiers buried seed in her,
but the harvest they will not reap. Her
child will be a pale petal on a delicate stem.

There is one woman;
now there are two.

The second wears her name, Ancilla,
as a rough habit of prayer. Her name,
"maidservant," dances before her like laughter.
Her sleeves are rolled up,
a dimpled wrist. A watch. In a steady voice
she puts the words of the stories in order.
Making sure none slip out of place.
She gathers bruised women
like lilies to her breast:
the insane, the tortured, the forever lost.
She touches the dark shadows
that veil their eyes -- eyes that now disown
their bodies. She gathers them,
pale petals on delicate stems.

There are two women;
now there are three.

The third woman, Elizabeth, heard
the cries of her cousins.
With tape recorder, notebook, cigarettes,
and camera she cast a net under their falling voices,
catching words before they reached the ground.
Vukovar. Sarajevo. The Una. Karlovac.
She carries the shrapnel of their stories
in her leg, shoulder, breast. Her wounds
burn, catch at odd moments, wake her
at night. She places the words carefully
on the page, making sure none slip out of place.
Each word, a small bulb planted twice its width
below the surface of the paper, will soon lift up
the raw scent of mourning and joy
in pale petals on delicate stems.

(The Vucedol Dove is a Bronze Age statue discovered in Vukovar, Croatia, in 1938. It represents the ancient companion of the sun goddess, always rising and bringing peace. With the Serbian destruction of Vukovar, the dove has become a national symbol for the whole of Croatia.)

Rose Marie Berger is associate editor of Sojourners.