by Larry Levy
When they came, herding parents
brothers, sisters, playmates,
elders, cousins, infants,
into a few narrow streets,
we obeyed. Choice was the first
privilege to disappear. Used to edicts,
Papa shared stale bread, an old cursed
image of ourselves. Then they sicced
the dogs on us, huddled in fears
of night trains, the work farms.
Papa reassured:
Has anyone died from stars,
from numbers burned on arms?
Somehow I outlasted cholera,
beatings, daily selections. I alone
came to Detroit, America,
removed the tattoo. Moved on.
One morning in a cafe
I heard neighbors:
The ovens were a lie.
No Anne Frank or six million, they say.
Papa’s words return: You must survive.
People will not believe.
You must not give in, must try.
Tell them. Roll up your sleeve.
Oh Father, of what then did we die?
Larry Levy's poems have appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, The South Carolina Review, Driftwood Review, Third Wednesday, Tenemos, Postcard Poems, and other literary paper and on-line publications. His poetry collections include I Would Stay Forever (Mayapple Press), All the Dead are Holy (Atmosphere Press), and What Outlives Us (Atmosphere Press). For several years he judged Third Wednesday's annual poetry contest. He and his wife live in Midland, MI where they direct plays and conduct workshops on acting and writing for the Midland Center for the Arts.
