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
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