Chemo in the Morning (c) 2010
The machine keeps a constant flow
of poisons into the vulnerable places.
This liquid platinum fills in specified voids
along the disputed front,
conquers mutation but decimates breath.
For an instant, equilibrium
pounds into the open spaces.
Dry longing,
this sacrament is poured
through plastic tubes into lives
desperate from and for this ritual of renewal.
Just a hundred years ago
men bent their heads,
reverenced the scry stone
to read the fire air that formed
in shadows and ghosts.
They peered into the unknown to achieve
some new equation.
Yet here in Wing 4
of this Cancer Center,
men and women grasp for infusion—
a scientist sanctioned sap
eases life into the stream
while it extracts the very base.
Visit to a Death Camp (C) 2015
A
screamed silence grabs me, holding
I
stand at attention and wait
as
lessons from history echo through my memory
in
portraits
black
and white, hidden misery,
disguised
torture, bloodshed—
just
a tone of grey on more
grey.
Kommen
Sie herein, bitte.
A
gradual rhythm, heartbeats to my steps,
as
bidden, I enter.
A
sensation tickles up my back,
I
hide my misery,
and
move forward, through rooms and cubed, slanted spaces
evil
made this place
a
psychological nightmare
somehow
worse
than
mere barracks with ovens.
Over
65 years distances me from truly knowing, so
I,
a student, wander through the maze—
pages,
plaques, pictures—
I
search for an explanation, an exit
but
it hides like a scared
child
forever
evading fingertips and sight,
beyond
where shadows and light
play
at some awful dance.
In
dieser platz sind Hunderte gestorben. Ermordert.
My
breath strangles, caught in my throat
I
process the information:
Hundreds
have died in this place
and
yet the evidence is hidden
in
plainness and time.
Again,
I search for explanation, some
emotional
exit point
of
anything positive
as
the black on white images stare back at me
with
too much
grey.
This
place presses in,
suffocates
some part of me I didn’t know needed breathing.
I
hide my misery,
Swallowing
anguish and uncertainty,
a
morose effort to avoid embarrassment.
I
escape through the marked
exits;
The
proclamation: Arbeit Macht Frei
mocks
my retreat.
“Work
makes you free?” I mutter.
Still,
explanations
evade.
I
wander back out into the streets
of
a city now so foreign to me yet I’ve lived here for over 8 months.
I
grip at my passport
checking
that it’s still
with
me.
I
lick my lips to summon moisture and life
back
to the part of me that feels like it will never work right again.
Just
an hour and I’ve aged 30 years
and
died a thousand deaths.
I
ignore the stray tear
that
shivers down to settle on the grey scarf at my neck.
I
look upwards
at
the empty sky
greyness
hides clarity
then
burns to a lighter grey where the sun should be.
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