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(Short Poems in Prose)
On a wagon, bound for market
There’s a calf with a mournful eye
High above her, there’s a swallow
Winging swiftly through the sky
How the winds are laughing
They laugh with all their might
Laugh…
Birds are drowsing on the branches.
Sleep, my darling child.
At your cradle, in the field,
A stranger sits and sings.
Once you had another cradle
Woven out of joy.
And your mother, oh your mother
W…
He was the last. Truly the last.
Such yellowness was bitter and blinding
Like the sun’s tear shattered on stone.
That was his true color.
And how easily he climbed, and how high.
Certainly, climbing…
He never mentions it by name. It might have been Trebibor or Majdawitz, Soblinka or Birkenhausen. He talks about “the camp,” as if there had been just one.
“After the war,” he says, “I saw a film…
Gassing the woodchucks didn’t turn out right.
The knockout bomb from the Feed and Grain Exchange
was featured as merciful, quick at the bone
and the case we had against them was airtight,
both exits…