You ask me: what do these women--
the holy and the profane--have in common?
And I reply: the stars and the moon,
the air and the earth, the river and silence,
everything and nothing. How else to explain
the hand of God existing amidst the closing
door of the crematorium, the raw thrust
of the rapist’s sole intent? How else
to forgive ourselves for being nothing more,
nothing less than ourselves? Bystanders,
collaborators, hands covered in ash and perfume

http://s50780.sites40.storefront-hosting.com/detail.aspx?ID=576