The beseeching hand,
robbed of its rings and bubbe’s watch,
now bent in prayer to its rememberings.
Faint veins of mapped tracery
so finely freckled, once downy
with a young woman’s peach-like glow.
The parchment skin of a lampshade
– tinged with tortured memories –
shines on her blue tattoo.
Her mother, her sister, her baby –
the men gone before: father, brother, uncle.
The suitcases’ one-way destination;
the children’s shoes, the hair, the spectacles
look on and weep.
Twinkle, twinkle, yellow star,
how I wonder what you are.
The Witch of Buchenwald and
the Auschwitz ovens yawn
in bored readiness for more,
by a different name.
The cruel fire is the same,
fanned by a hot wind of hate.
And prejudice. And greed.
Greased by fat-fed apathy,
it's all downhill on the slippery slope
to grief’s waiting chambers of horrors.
Fingernails scratch at the bolted door.
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Author Notes
Author's Note:
This poem was written in the spirit of remembrance - that discriminatory prejudice never sleeps, and must always be called out when it rears its ugly head in whatever shape-shifting guise it chooses to present itself. Look to higher ideals instead of descending and embracing our baser instincts.
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