If I had a glass to raise I'd pour champagne on Mass graves, Shelves of skeletons, Skulls in single layers filling Church basements, And soil in the coutryside Where the burial sites Have not yet been Unearthed.
I'd give bubbly to the bones Of those who died Before their first taste.
To those who died, Because they owned ten cows or more And had milk with their meals While neighbors drank water.
To those who died, Because they didn't have enough Banana wine For bribes To save their lives.
To those who died, Because they didn't have enough Time to hide. Because they hadn't lied About their father's tribe.
To those who died, Because they wouldn't confide Where their killers could find Cockroaches on that hillside, Neighbors who'd run before dawn, Their cattle, grazing in hiding, and Where their children had gone.
To those who died, for being The taller man The longer nose The leaner build The lighter skin, The more beautiful women.
I'd toast to those who died.
II. To Those Who Survived
If I had a glass to raise Of champagne, I'd toast to those Sitting around this table Sixteen years later. "Here's to being alive!"
A toast to those who survived.
In response to Irena Klepfisz's poem "Bashert," Yiddish for "ineviatble" or "predestined."