For my Young Lover between Berlin and Birkenau


She still believes in love

for she is young

and too, carries the white

all women must:


Never having asked

How the rabbit got in the hat.


Her stories all end

in happily ever after

and the only pain she knows

comes in the remembrance

of once upon a time

the weeds of her imagination.


And I

always calling

a spade a spade

(because I’m afraid),

will not tell her

about the bodies

I’ve carried

stuffed in bags,

their eyes reminding me

of the marbles

as a youngster

I once desired and thumbed,

their stiff limbs

tangled like

gathered forest undergrowith

waiting for the match.


I will not tell her

how the sound

of a smashed infant’s skull

cracks in much the same way

as her knuckles do

and that the smell

of burnt flesh

can too be perfume.


No, not tonight anyways.


Her unwrinkled skin

a canvas yet painted

by these hands so human

they’ve forgotten

how many they’ve hung

condemned or caressed.


I will let this grass

always believe it will

be green

and let her eyes light

fires to lead me away

from myself.


Atleast for tonight.


I stuff the rabbits

back into my hat

and try to smooth

my spoilt skin

with this tongue

that is always

in search of soup.


Living can’t wait.

There are always tomorrows for the truth.




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