They made such orderly graves as they fell.
Pristine black and white, without life; without smell.
My mind lied, the images reversed
resurrection not martyred. Preserved.
I snatched up the child her warmth reassuring
with her, I ran into the forest searching
finding only anxiety amidst the crowds
I crumpled, rocking into a tiny mound.
I awoke. Without the warmth. No child found.
It all started with a crash.
Plane after plane felled into the sea
rummaging through wave beaten trash
a small life. Chubby hands, holding history.
Perhaps this poem makes no sense to anyone but myself, but every time I reread it I can see it again. Stumbling upon a beach with debris washing ashore and finding a small girl in the water holding a picture of young people awaiting their untimely fall into dark holes before them; a holocaustal image and still, their figures were lively and hopeful. Almost in rebellion, jumping off the image in resistance against the moments after the photo was inevitably taken. They won, I believed them raised rather than fallen. And as the people around me ran off into the forest I swept the child into my arms and ran into the hills only to fall to the ground with the girl in a feeble attempt to comfort or protect or escape, and then, then I awoke.
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