South Of Babi Yar

.

.

I am not even Jewish.

Yet my mothers blood is enough

So that I am digging my own grave.

.

 

The watchers fiddle with their rifles

Waiting to take my dead picture

As proof

The sun is hot.

.

I like the beads of running sweat

The shovel brings from the earth

Like making loves in the forest place

Only this time there is wind.

.

I have been to the South Of Babi Yar once before

But I did not dig so deep

As to believe

Time is now running out.

.

Do I become a Jew

On the back of a faithless bullet?

Will the next glance of my spade,

The handle caramelized with fear,

Break apart some genie bone

Anointing me with dust

Holier than what chokes me now?

.

That boy is cleaning the brass on his shirt;

The clicky rail chamber closing out tunnel light,

He yelps as he pinches his thumb.

.

Do I pray now?

Or wait for the squeeze of his finger?

This thing cannot be rushed

Faith can only arrive.

South Of Babi Yar there is a new ditch;

I Am in it.

.

.

J H S

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s