Walking Home

She walks east. Tick tick tick tick, a woodpecker tapping at the side of her brain. Tick tick tick tick.
Countless tiny brass squares of the city’s shame underfoot, unforgotten. Each has one word in common.
Ermordet.
Not killed.
Not dead.
Murdered.
Past the memorial, where western tourists sit on the stelae and graze and she silently screams at their nonchalance.
Finally, Ampelmann says it is safe. Tells her to cross. Tells her she is home. She didn’t move west, she let the truth find her and she remains in the same bare house of 50 years. Only now the truth is slipping away again. Invisible walls and the tick tick tick tick of the woodpecker at the side of her brain.
Post-truth is pre-fascism.
Now home, she will wait.