Monticello, 1990

She smiles as if she knows.
He smiles though he clearly doesn’t.
With the fires and dogs of Auschwitz-Birkenau
40 years over her shoulder, no longer does she wake up
In the middle of the night, fear filling the hole in her heart
Where her parents now live. And six siblings.
All that’s left is a faded batch of numbers
Branded onto a forearm, as familiar as the neighboring freckles.
And yet…she has no idea how bad it can get.
Standing in front of the lake, the quiet gazebo on the side;
This is vacation. This is summer. This is God’s country.
And yet…in her pleated skirt, billowing like clown pants,
With her smile; calm, earned, and rooted in the present,
She—a Babi, he—little more than a chipmunk, a chavargo,
She stands beside him and doesn’t peer into the future.
Because if she did, if she were to,
Well then,
She might just see those things, those dreaded, clammy things,
That would make her past seem a safe retreat.