LIDICE LIVES
g.a. scheinoha
as real
in the frontal lobes
of the Czech/American
town as back then;
June 10, 1942,
where half a world
away, the Nazis
executed
every man
and boy in
the village
over sixteen
in retaliation
for the death
of one
of their own.
Dumping them
ten at a time
into a mass grave:
still too shallow
to keep their memory
down.
I can’t comprehend
that sorrow, real as rock
chiseled from
a few lives
lived like pebbles
in an ocean
of pain.
Lidice rises
here and now,
in this fresh
mown field, this
park little more
than two
baseball diamonds
deep as a seven
foot wall
suddenly jutting
into twelve foot
column
of stone.
Perhaps granite
is the only thing
the future
understands,
solid/unmoveable
as death.
