TREBLINKA
Lyn Lifshin
like the sound
of giraffe
necks shattering,
trembling.
Crystal bullets,
I was wrapped
in a blue so
torn and old
it was almost
colorless, blue
of David's eyes
and the light
we could see from
trains. I had
enough of moon
light, hiding
crawling between
barns. Under the
hay my heart was
pounding. Maybe
when they shave
my hair it will
go for a mattress
in Berlin, for
that man I'd
love to spit
at who dreams
of goose fat
sputtering as
he washes his
coarse beard
with soap made
of a sister
you won't know.
If Treblinka was
a color it would
be a hard icy
almost white
blue the color
of flames
they shoved
cribs into. What
shatters becomes
its own blade
