what mercy

folded
together like sticks.
her bones are stuck
in place.
she looks not unlike
the photos i've
seen of bodies
stacked as lumber
at Auschwitz or Dachau,
but her eyes are open.
blank
and brown.
staring into yours.
her mittened hands
scratching,
scratching
at the boards of her
skin.
parchment now,
yellowed and veined,
sagging
under the weight
of what's left
of her.
what wisdom is there
in this kind of dying,
what mercy
is there?