Reading Concentration Camp Poems
They have no women around, and their vision pierces darkness
And turns the memory of bodies into an ephemeral ecstasy of mind.
Something feminine in them is squeezed out, and they drink it
To the clinking of ice cubes of loneliness against an illusionary glass.
Once stirred and waken, every woman can gobble down many souls.
They are already dead, and can no longer sleep or make human noises,
Like islands in the sea; each of them is inhabited by a monster,
That emerges like an inverted whirlpool, the waterline between its nostrils and mouth
And then there are fogs rising up and foams rolling away. Only a few breaths after,
It’ll submerge into itself own depth, unless a falling star holds it up with the afterimage.
My armchair has wheels, and I, sunk in it, slide in and out of
The lighted cone, so smooth that nothing is broken or scratched.
My depression is the water molested by the morning sun, with flakes of gold foil,
Mute, low and distant, like my next door neighbor, a charming Polish lady
Who sprinkles our doorway with her solitude, body aroma and smile, morning and night.
At irregular intervals I tap our shared wall as if I were an out-of-order clock
To tell her that a new day is crawling along the ladder of roofs to deliver us.
Oct. 2, 2009