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THE OVENS

Wayne Ray

I was there when
they cleaned out the ovens,
gut wrenching sweet stench
with every shower of flames and
I saw what intense heat does
to fragile skin and bones,
every shape, size, color and race,
voice, habit and curve of face
went not screaming into that place.
Behind those iron oven doors,
soot black sealed door
with pyrex viewing windows
not screaming they went but
drugged or gassed or frozen.
Any screams were long ago and far away.
I'll never forget the frozen pregos
popping open like so many apple pies
when stuck with a fork.
They don't last long in the intense
unbearable heat, joining billowing
blackened smoke going up,
farther up that phallic stack
airing transgressions in the name
of medical science.
I thank their Gods and my God
that they had reclined in the arms of Morpheus
long before they were scraped from
the cinder pit for I was there when
they cleaned out the ovens.



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