from 366.
110.
As the bells toll
in Israel,
work stops this morning,
and heads are hung in solemn silence.
6 million.
12 million.
some say only two million.
some even say,
not one.
not one in the oven.
not one made into lampshades.
not one made into soap
this morning,
the bells are rung, rung
in rememberance of
being herded into boxcars,
crowded so together that
children suffocated,
old women suffocated.
imagine staring out through the slats
of a train car at the grey polish countryside
slickering by,
while some unknown corpse slowly aches
against your breast.
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