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Clothing Piles, Dachau

It seems the clothing piles reach up to brush
the clouds. All those coats, those lovingly
put away coats, taken off on cold Polish nights
and placed in closets. Rumpled dresses with
the leaves of Warsaw parks still on their hems.

A million pinafores. An avalanche of hats.
All trouser pockets turned inside-out. Shawls,
kneesocks, pullovers, undershirts, cliffs of
clothing in the rain. Beyond that, the mound
of empty suitcases, all carefully labelled.

Chelmno Villanelle

She helps the new ones off the filthy train;
they look to her for guidance and for truth.
She reassures them, indicates the gates.

These are faces she will not see again.
As the guards watch and chatter in small groups,
she helps the new ones off the filthy train.

Their worn shoes fill with mud and frozen rain
as more snow gathers slowly on the roof.
She reassures them, indicates the gates.

She smiles and waves and points them on their way
as the mounted horses lift their cold hooves.
She helps the new ones off the filthy train.

Her mirror broke, fell all the way away.
In the end there is nothing left to lose.
She reassures them, indicates the gates.

Sirened awake each fresh relentless day,
her nerve returns; she steps up to the queue.
She helps the new ones off the filthy train
and reassures them, indicates the gates.

Himmler Retires Early

In private, erect, you still barely fill
your small, girlish hand. Hence,

eventually, the black clothes, black boots,
black leather, a death’s head on your

black cap. The air you travel through
beating with fear. A lullaby of screams

to soothe you. Your pillow the grief
of Europe, your consolation a chorus

of children’s voices crying hurry,
Mummy, burning, hurry.