Though you asked me
to say those words, should
I feel the need, should they
ever become necessary,
that hurtful sentence will never
cross my lips. Though you,
in you innocence and well-meaning,
asked me to tell you, should I
ever feel the rift growing, my limbs
hardening, your eyes seeing
me as only something I am not, you
will never hear me say those words.
You are happy.
You are so happy, and I
will never be the one to decide
my comfort is worth more
than your happiness. That
is my promise. I will only ask
one thing- please hold on
to your happiness, please, I beg
so I never feel my silence
was in vain.

And after everything, I think
I can finally say I am beginning
to understand what you have been trying
to tell me for so long.
And after everything, I still
get scared sometimes, terrified that
everything I think I am understanding
is my own brand of idiotic hopefullness, or
worse, I have understood, but
you are feeding me empty sentiments, sugar cubes
to quiet a squalling baby.
And after everything, I see
in mind's eye, our figures
tied together, not mine
vainly trying to lasso yours, fine as shadow,
as I did for so long, and more
than that, I see us holding willingly
to this rope, precious more than gold
or anything anyone could offer me.
And after everything, I trust
not blindly, as I did before, but honestly
not the trust of a sun-dazzled fool
to her betters, but the open
and honest trust to a flawed human
who deserves it.
And after everything, I can say
we are not hurt, we stand
strong, I have predicted well
and we have survived, and your fears
were as unfounded as I said
they would be, (as unfounded
as my very own).
And after everything, I still
love you, and more
than I could before.

This is a white room
with tiny pencil drawings marching
around the walls in childish lines, telling
so many stories. Try
though I may, one thousand of my words
is worth less than one
of these drawings, and so
I think this space
is a place that needs
to be kept safe
inside your heart.

Real people
could not have stood
inside these walls, four
to half a square meter.
Real people
could not have lived
inside these walls, four
breathing in unison.
Real people
could not have been
but how could real people
have done this.

Let me tell you
about that room.
That room
is not a passage, that rom
is a dead end, that room
will lead you nowhere.
And in that room
your breath will catch
and your stomach will tremble
and your head will swim
and your heart will beat out rhythms
of fear, until you feel
they must have taken your soule
while you stood in wonder, and hidden it
under the thousands of shoes
that are heaped on your sides.

And on the stairs leading up
your foot catches
and once extricated
catches again. Every stair
the same, every step
an effort to lift
your feet, every inch
of the way a journey.
Every stair
indented, marked
the middles pressed down
by thousands of feet
that once were here
and are no more.

The saddest part
is on the last days, when
you realize that your words
don’t come as easily, don’t flow
from you like pain, as
they did earlier. When you realize
you’ve seen so much
you’ve used up your quota
of surprise.

Silently, we sit
in a circle, reading
our letters. And they

my classmates, my
temporary family, absorb words
I will never see, and
shake quietly, weeping. You

sent me a letter, too
and you tell me you love me,
underlined twice and adorned
with an exclamation point. You

tell me you love me, and
stand tall, seemingly
above me, not seeing
how I have grown long ago
out of your shadow. You

say you love me, and this
is a gunshot, but I
have put a silencer
in your rifle. In order to cry
you still have to care.

Today is so beautiful.
Today is so beautiful in the forest.
Today is so beautiful in the forest with the blue sky and the golden leaves.
Today is so beautiful in the forest with the blue sky and the golden leaves and the ten thousand buried in mass graves.
How.

When all but a few
are here
alive
for only twenty minutes

And those who are here
longer are
killed
after only a few months

How could you ask why
no Jew
human
tried to fight back?

A field of stones-
impassive
grey.
If I did not know
what they hide-
thirty three mass graves-
I would not think
to be horrified.

As we walk
towards a concrete wall, towards
nothing, as you did, we
slowly, almost imperceptibly,
sink. As we walk
we are in direct juxtaposition
and symmetry to
your fate. For while we all
walk towards nothing, our nothing
will end, and you
are still interred around us.

Half a million walked in this gate
and vanished.
Half a million walked down this path
and were buried in mass graves.
Half a million were here
and this place is forgotten
because half a million died.
What right do I have
to walk in
and walk out?

Sunlight shines
through bare
trees, winter
air hanging
like the
last breath
you took.
How is
the world
still beautiful.

Metal pipes run
the length of the ceiling, where
rusted nozzles hang
downwards, morning glories of death.
What a relief
you must have felt when
only water fell
from those flowers, mimicking
tears of joy
on far too many cheeks.
What an irony
that an element that cuts off air
and drowns many
gave you the right and permission
to breathe freely.

We walk in
to the barracks, where only
silence reigns. Any laughter
any chatter, any
noise at all, even
our footsteps, fades,
becomes hushed
and humble, to evaporate
into air, the air
we breathe, the air
so many choked on. Now
only the quiet explanations
and the muffled sniffles of those
who try not to cry
hang around our heads.

A small child
in a mass grave. One
of millions, but this one
bore your name. Then
I cry. Pregnant mothers
and old men, brothers
and wives and daughters and all
I can think about
is this child that shared
a string of letters
with you. What if
What if
What if

The writing on the wall
is bold, shouting
out to you, black
upon white, a
deafening whisper behind
your eyeballs, drowning
your thoughts in words
you had left

behind. The writing
on the wall is
exultant, proclaiming
His glory- musical, singing
of his greatness- pleading,
for deliverance from all
that plagues or
may come

to them. You remember when us
became them. This
writing on every wall
grows stronger the further
you look up, for hands
cannot touch the corners
near the ceiling, and tears
have only faded the letters past
the waterline of sobbing

prayers. The intricate writing
on these walls belies
their strength, every one
two meters thick, and you
sit inside these walls and try to listen
to the voices you
have been asked to hear, and
wonder how around so
much strength you
feel so constricted, so helpless.

I miss
those two hours we stole
that night, the way the road looked
under lamplight, stretching out
until after our eyes
would stop seeing, until
after where the circle of electric radiance
met its border, maybe
until forever. I miss
the enthusiasm, your nodding
when I would explain the way
my psychological manipulation works, how
our metaphors, for that feeling
that seems so normal, and yet so terrible,
matched perfectly. And the cold,
the gravel road, the aching feet, all that
I would gladly take for some more time
with you.
I miss
that hour we took unapologetically
the next day, even the time we spent looking
for the right spot, long as it was,
the gentle rocking of the hammock
and the snap-snap-snap
as we both pulled twigs apart
to keep our hands busy. I miss
that one particular moment
when I made you laugh, an inane comment
about getting my shoes *****, and how
your head dipped and skimmed
my shoulder, for just a second.
I guess, though I miss
all of these moments, mostly
I miss
you.