For My Young Lover, Between Berlin And Birkenau
A poem written in the 90s E. Europe.
She still believes in love
or 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 undergrowth
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 anyway.
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.
At least 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.