Her Name For Ana. Buried at sea. 1912
Everyone mentions
The bobbing life vests
From the rescue ship, dotting
The distance “like seabirds”
Amongst the bergs
Everyone mentions
The number of survivors
In journal entries and letters
Hands thawing aboard the Carpathia
Crying happiness, and horror, and shame
Everyone mentions
The chivalry as it sank
How orderly the gentlemen
In lines, the band, yet very little
Of third class
Everyone mentions
How kind the passengers
Mending their clothing, surrendering
Blankets, giving up their rooms
To sleep on deck
On the 18th of April, however
After bobbing images of frozen bodies
Had sunk in, a funeral
For victims, and one other
At the stern
No
one mentions
These
five souls
Wrapped
in bedsheets
Weighted,
to be dropped
Into
the Atlantic
Some
mention
The
clergyman’s prayers
A few
passengers, crew, survivors
Gathered.
But lost to history is
The
baby’s name
It
was her first born
A
daughter. On her way
Back
to the old country
She
had given up her room
Ana
Pavel
Was
her name
Everyone
went back to New York
Where
the Titanic had been heading
And
the family would never
Meet
again
I
mention her
Little
known, but not forgotten baby
Because
she was my aunt
And may
she rest
In
peace