The End

The End

Hearing the sounds of goose stepping feet,

I run home forgetting my tattered jacket,

My yellow star.

Crossing the bridge over Zgierska Street,

The rails were soundless—

No trolleys with painted windows today.

Crowds of people silently in prayer,

As memories tossed from windows

Covered the streets below.

The caterwaul of mamma’s cry, “Eli! Eli!”

Deafen the sounds of “Juden!”

Tears steak from hollowed eyes,

Over jagged, boned flesh,

Cleaning, clearing a path to my mother’s bosom,

Mamma’s hand stretching from the chaos clenching mine:

 “Eli,” and “Bubala,” gently, lovingly, softly.

We walk, we stride, we run

Whistle’s blowing, dogs barking, gunshots calling— “Aufmerksamkeit Juden!”

Steam engine smoking, and cattle cars packing—“Hast Juden!”

Mamma’s grip tightening, droplets of blood
Falling, leading, trailing,

To the place I once called home.