Our men are heroes, of course.
They protect us, gun in hand,
against enemies plastered on posters
vandalizing once-beautiful stone storefronts.
More every day.
Stapled on top of one another
until words blend.
"But now,"
the overly made-up woman at the podium says,
"women can do our part."
They’ve gathered other pretty blondes
with symmetrical features measured
by a myriad of devices.
Beautiful,
demure
women
with
beautiful,
Aryan
genes
to breed with our handsome heroes.
Because women,
and the children we bear,
are the key to Germany’s future.
I glance at the woman to my right,
eyes skiing down the slope of her nose
to rest on smiling lips.
Is the blush on her cheeks genuine,
or set by rouge?
It suits her.
She catches me staring.
My breath hitches in my throat.
I throw my attention back to the woman
glorifying human broodmares.
Heat assaults my cheeks.
“Your rouge is lovely.”
Her whisper warms me.
“Can you believe this?
Us, with war heroes?”
She sighs.
I can practically see the dream
play through the air.
A husband coming home in uniform,
splaying a hand on her swollen belly
and kissing her forehead.
A fantasy.
These men…
they’ll come,
take what they want from us for granted
and claim they did us a favor
when they leave us alone
with child.
But my fingers would dance
never-ending pirouettes
across that porcelain skin.
Swirl intricate patterns
through golden hair,
all for that sigh
to carry a dream with me in it.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
Our men are heroes, of course.
They protect us, gun in hand,
against enemies plastered on posters
vandalizing once-beautiful stone storefronts.
More every day.
Stapled on top of one another
until words blend.
"But now,"
the overly made-up woman at the podium says,
"women can do our part."
They’ve gathered other pretty blondes
with symmetrical features measured
by a myriad of devices.
Beautiful,
demure
women
with
beautiful,
Aryan
genes
to breed with our handsome heroes.
Because women,
and the children we bear,
are the key to Germany’s future.
I glance at the woman to my right,
eyes skiing down the slope of her nose
to rest on smiling lips.
Is the blush on her cheeks genuine,
or set by rouge?
It suits her.
She catches me staring.
My breath hitches in my throat.
I throw my attention back to the woman
glorifying human broodmares.
Heat assaults my cheeks.
“Your rouge is lovely.”
Her whisper warms me.
“Can you believe this?
Us, with war heroes?”
She sighs.
I can practically see the dream
play through the air.
A husband coming home in uniform,
splaying a hand on her swollen belly
and kissing her forehead.
A fantasy.
These men…
they’ll come,
take what they want from us for granted
and claim they did us a favor
when they leave us alone
with child.
But my fingers would dance
never-ending pirouettes
across that porcelain skin.
Swirl intricate patterns
through golden hair,
all for that sigh
to carry a dream with me in it.
this is a fiction poem set in **** Germany. In this poem we start to explore two controversial sides of ****** that aren't spoken about near enough: the Lebensborn women and homosexuality in **** Germany.
The former was a program meant to find the 'perfect' Aryan women and have them breed with **** soldiers and officials. This would keep the blood pool 'clean'. It replaced the social stigma of an unmarried woman being pregnant with something to be celebrated, and the fathers were, most often, not a part of the child's life.
The latter is self explanatory. Homosexuality was just as much a crime as any of the other ridiculous parameters set by **** Germany.
DISCLOSURE
This was in no way shape or form meant to promote, encourage, or even tolerate genocide. Unfortunately this is a part of history that DID happen, and affects me personally. My grandmother was a Lebensborn child and this is a story based off of her mother. The Lebensborn project is a disgusting part of history so forgotten. Women all but had their rights stripped away to be broodmares for Hitler's army.
Bringing light to that, and educating people on the way propaganda coerced these people is extremely relevant in the political climate right now
Request permission to use this poem