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.





Leave a Reply

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

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

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ 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 )


Connecting to %s