By Barbara Siegel Carlson
— after Anne Frank
So still as to feel a wall breathe
like paper before flames. Plates
on the other side still cold, still perfect
as placed in the cupboard. Still
later at the camp, as one of your own
tore bread from your hands. Are you still
near the borders, starved as the enemy?
Still a stream of light that the dust floats on,
waiting for the kind people, and beautiful baskets
of strawberries, and your dear Pim — still
under all the layers of clothes
worn into hiding — and still wearing those pajamas
crawling with bugs. Whose voices
were shaken when something glittered
again and again to still some smaller
more infinite grain?
Copyright © 2020 by Barbara Siegel Carlson.