Death by Number

A Holocaust poem

 

My name is a number

Tattooed on my wrist.

Smokey flesh fills the air.

Ovens make human entrées

For the ground to feed on.

 

Egg shells cover our organs

And bones

We’ve eaten our muscles

With blood cocktails,

On long hikes between camps.

 

They’ve packed their death rooms

Full of sardines fresh for smoking.

Buckets of children feed the fires

That will kill us all.

 

All we can do is wait.