NHMD

 

Like the vertically toppling gravestones

I left behind in Prague’s cemetery –

No time to say good-bye to those beneath –

We stagger, shoulders crashing together,

In the cattle truck.  I try to hold you

As close as I can to the barred window:

Fresh air.  Breathe, little one, breathe this dark day

And many more to come.  Please sir – I know

It’s hard – you’re feeling worse than I am now –

But try not to vomit on my baby.

I clutch her tight, side-stepping a puddle.

                                  *

I’m here; now.  Holocaust Memorial Day.

My children are alive.  They came with me

To hear the poem read aloud – the one

I wrote for you and Ruth.  I tried

To make it real – you clutching the baby

As, together, you took that final walk

Into the chamber.  Strange word.  That chamber

Wasn’t bridal.  A chamber of horrors:

Stationary cattle truck with no air –

Only the deathly stench, the gas that laid

Its pall over these past seventy years.

We each light a candle and clutch a stone.

The altar floor is shimmering with stones.

We are far now from that cemetery.

        We lay the stones down.