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The Dangers of Mankind is Man
Mara’s hair colour touched by time, her voice hedged—struggling to find its way to me
She had once tried to kill herself.
My flippant thought: Did you succeed?
She looked as she had.
An abandoned relic, bopped-up, surfacing
in her drenched memories—Arbeit macht frei.
The stench of horror clings to her bare flesh,
worn as a wetsuit of near death,
unwashable, unforgettable—always present,
dragging survivors in its spiral of dark desires.
Dipped in death like Lazarus.
One of many Juden,
Spun into the spindle of time
then woven back
into living memory.
Her lips caressed the porcelain rim of a teacup,
allowing her stream of consciousness to flow.
Each sip of thought occupied her scornful solitude.
The cozy, blanketed a tempest of hate,
steeping in a strong pot of paranoia.
A sole survivor, thinking of her great-grand children at the Supernova Sukkot Gathering.
Are they alive?
No word.
Memories placed her on life’s off-ramp,
detouring to the deadened horrors—rising
from the ashes of the Topf & Söhne ovens.
The gas shower of angst traded fears for tears,
fingerless gold rings of love and devotion—
marked as counters of the untold bathers.
Death, hunger and torture, the triple tyranny
of genocide that took her family—people.
Vanquished, now the vanquisher.
Ceaseless revenge inflicted over and over again.
Global tides of sympathy and empathy recede.
Justice silently struggles to calibrate towards
the untempered horror as horror begets horror.
Gaza openly parallels into a concentration camp.
Copyright ©
Casey Hart
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