No matter how much we enlarge it,
That photograph snapped by a German soldier
Of my grandmother in Lida, 1916,
Remains perfectly clear. Her eyes
Register her cold measure
Of the soldier who could decide
To shoot her instead of her
Picture if that
Was his hobby
Instead of photography.

This is what war
Is like I taste her fear
Even though Im seeing her
Now from the eyes
Of the oppressor.

And I know the shame of both.