I’d say she’s been trained

in archaeology

to know to dig

intersecting trenches

to know to look

for changes in soil colour

denoting the passage of time

different ages.

Eventually they found the marker string

then a shoe, then the corner

of a blue striped sweater.

Gradually they uncover

a tangle of bodies

arms, elbows, legs

heads pathetically nestling

among fingers, faces.

I don’t want to think

about their last fall

about the few who survived

the bullets

only to smother, drown

in this pit

among moans

and warm blood.

Now browned

blackened by death

in earth

they lie like dates

or figs

melding to one another.

Two hundred

men’s bodies.

She says it’s easier for her

if she doesn’t meet relatives.

They seal driver’s licences

wedding rings, neck-chains into bags

scrub and measure bones.

On clipboards they calculate height and age

note hair colour – to prove what praying families

know but don’t want to hear.

Our new computer is so fast

we can scroll up pages in a flash.

Still

it takes time to scroll past

three and a half thousand

names and addresses

ages, causes, locations and dates

of death.

Listening: story after story

Reading: obituaries, searching

in tangles of words, in messes of grief

among decomposing anger,

breathing the stink of fear

searching for missing addresses, ages

details, data, to us – searing punctuations

full stops in other lives.

At night, such archaeologists as we are

we lie awake

beside our sleeping husbands and wives

alone

thinking about what we are doing

thinking about what has been done

wondering would it really be better

if we could sleep?