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When I was twelve, I read The Diary of Anne Frank.
I identified with her having to live
stories above a busy street
over a business, and having to keep quiet
for hours at a time.
I’d pad about on…
She turns the pages, naked uncles
so naked and skinny, run and
even aunties with fannies showing
and others in pajamas as in a show
with yellow cloth stars sewed on.
And everybody so ugly and thin,
a…
And now Blimele, dear child,
Stop—stop playing now.
No time for that.
We can be called at any minute
To leave our poor home
—A lonely boat on an island of sand—
And be hurled into the midst
Of a…