Your Life is Reflected in Broken Glass

Papa got taken away.

Overbearingly screaming and fighting,

inciting the others to act out the same.

Extinguished with a spark,

our bodies desecrated like synagogues.

Each hand was a sledgehammer, 

fists of Satan.

Heads of angels, 

bullets were given wings.

Fire versus the choir,

a middle ground was found through us.

Worn until our wear changed hues.

Shattered windows 

stabbed the streets.

Blood watered seeds of contempt. 

We cursed God,

then prayed for help.

I guess He was mad.

Mama balanced her sorrow 

and her love for me.

A tipping point,

the demons won.

I saw her silhouette in a shard of glass.

My friend got taken away.

The others diverted their gaze,

I did the same.

We cursed the guards, 

then prayed that it wouldn’t be us.

Towns got smaller, 

and quieter.

You 

could 

hear 

a 

bullet 

drop.

Some cried,

and washed their hands in blood.

We cried, 

and washed our hands with mud.

I cried,

a flood washed over my hands.

Thinking of friends that slipped through my fingers,

I cursed myself for being so weak.

Then I thanked God that it wasn’t me.

Cracks in the pavement 

emerged from smashed mirrors.

Seeing my frac-

tured frame, 

I became an afterimage.

The imagery of the aftermath didn’t exist

if I wasn’t real.

Day after day,

I was a ghost.

Invisible, 

viewing more and more 

get taken away

like sheep.

Counting sheep,

I stayed awake.

The shadows smothering my hands.

“Am I a product 

built to be consumed by these camps?”

Remembering mama,

I needed a reason to live.

I asked my aunt if I had worth.

She said, 

“Your life is reflected in broken glass.”

I’m getting taken away. 

My head hanging low, humbly walking.

The others are doing the same.

Nobody’s cursing.

I’m praying that this is just 

a nightmare or a ruse or that 

God will save me.

…

I guess He’s still mad.

Clad in chains,

losing myself in a 

flock of martyrs.

What’s special about my life? 

We all look the same.

We all go to the same destination.

My ego’s breaking like the windows of 

our stores, our buildings, our synagogues.

Our home.

Reflected in these shards is me.

A me from Warsaw.

A me from Łódź.

A me from Minsk.

A me from everywhere 

going to nowhere.

And what can I do about it?

A life reflected in broken glass 

is as tangible as a sunset.

As everlasting as a bubble 

floating in the air. 

It’s too far to grasp and too frail to grip,

and so it’s only to be fleetingly savored.

Tomorrow, the Sun

Tomorrow, the sun shines 

and I remember when 

what was mine was

Tomorrow, the sun shines 

and I remember when we were the same 

Your name, my letters 

and my heart, your beat

And we played and danced and 

Tomorrow, the sun shines 

and I remember when it took everything 

I could not to break down crying 

When the weight of it all made me fall 

I saw myself through your eyes and I

Tomorrow, the sun shines 

and I remember when my world was alight 

from your spark, I held your torch 

And now my world is burning from your flame 

I’m burning, burning, and you don’t 

Tomorrow, the sun shines 

and I remember when the clock was blind 

I discovered my adolescence in your voice 

and desired your words that held the weight 

of my trials and love felt 

Tomorrow, the sun shines 

and I remember when I could speak

without my voice shattering 

and write without my words being letters 

and I could weave my emotion 

into yarns and leave it all behind 

on the page but you broke me and

i can’t fix myself through prose or verse 

each rose a hearse i try and try to 

capture my heart but like a bird 

with clipped wings it scurries away