The Moya View

The Cenotaph

Holocaust Memorial to the murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin Germany

The street life went 
on all night outside
their kitchen until their
laughter-last shouts
shattered the dawn.

In Brooklyn, the rabbi reading
the Times would only see
the shattered picture window,
the blood on the rusty door,
the broken mugs, two forks
on the breakfast table,
the rounds that formed holes,
red balloons amidst the
night clothing on the wall.

“They did not leave this place
unremembered,” would be
the homily he tells the knesset,
leaving them wondering where
does life really begin and end?—
leaving them wandering two score
years between womb and wound,
not even a silk pillow their friend.





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