I am insulted that the birds
Still have the gall
To sing here.
Their sweet chirps above the
Screams of the dying
Is a mockery, and
My stomach turns at
Their sick, twisted joke.
I watched a child get shot yesterday.
The SS officer pulled out a gun
And fired like he had done it a
Thousand times before.
Like the act of taking a life was as
Natural as washing one’s hands.
Ironic, don’t you think?
And they say we’re the filth.
Oh, I hope he rots in hell.
But that afternoon, as I saw the smoke
Rising and blackening the sky,
And smelled with pale horror
The unmistakable stench of burning flesh,
I realized that hell is a place
Called Auschwitz, and
We’re the ones rotting.
How it so crumbles like silt
In my hands.
Did I mention?
One of them carries a bible under his arm
And fingers the pages during break.
I pass by and have to slap a hand to my mouth
To stifle the insane laugh bubbling up my throat.
What God are you praying to, sir?
Let’s hope He has mercy on your soul.
I just shared my stale bread with
The woman in the next bunk.
Her ribs jutted out of her chest
As her bones made a wild attempt
To flee her body.
And even as she crept dutifully into
The fingers of death,
She said to me,
People are good.
A sad, sort of half-crazed laugh.
That’s just not something
I think I can believe in