In memory of Ferida Osmanovic

You walked through night,
fleeing to live, one of thousands.
In the morning you found a tree,
made a noose of your belt and shawl 
and hung yourself.
In your death, facing the tree,
its thick trunk, craggy bark,
was the last thing you saw
before your neck broke
and your children became orphans.

The next day a photographer found you,
a beautiful young woman
in a white dress and a red cardigan.
He captured your death for the world to see,
front page of the New York Times.
I sip my coffee,
and hold my three-year old close
to hide the image.
What did you see?
Who did you lose?

I would speak your name.
I would mourn you—
a palette smeared in shades of blood.

You walked through night,
fleeing to live.
What made you change your mind
when morning came?