Leveler Poetry Journal
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Dream of My Father’s Shiva, Auschwitz, 1942

 

no water

 

 

as far as I

can see to the edge

of the relentless

field

 

 

a plow

homes

 

 

I hear

the violent

fanning

 

 

of a windmill

now

 

 

I am at the steer

shoveling

bodies

to find you

 

 

when I think

gusts of it

there is something

humming

 

 

in the air of this

thick dream

 

 

cutting

through the pink smoke

I almost hear

you say it—

 

 

this lake of bodies

starts to freeze

 

 

I hear

your grunting

when the plow’s hand

snags off your fingers—

 

 

Smokestacks

finally

 

 

in another world

it might mean

the city

 

 

where you taught me

about buildings

 

 

you’re blue as Lake Michigan

when I get you in the machine’s hand

 

 

the plow

turns to the building

with the lone smokestack

 

 

against my desire




Lisa Hiton