Her Blue Tattoo

by LisaMay

The beseeching hand,
robbed of its rings and bubbe’s watch,
now bent in prayer to its rememberings.

Faint veins of mapped tracery
so finely freckled, once downy
with a young woman’s peach-like glow.
The parchment skin of a lampshade
– tinged with tortured memories –
shines on her blue tattoo.

Her mother, her sister, her baby –
the men gone before: father, brother, uncle.
The suitcases’ one-way destination;
the children’s shoes, the hair, the spectacles
look on and weep.

Twinkle, twinkle, yellow star,
how I wonder what you are.

The Witch of Buchenwald and
the Auschwitz ovens yawn
in bored readiness for more,
by a different name.

The cruel fire is the same,
fanned by a hot wind of hate.
And prejudice. And greed.

Greased by fat-fed apathy,
it's all downhill on the slippery slope
to grief’s waiting chambers of horrors.
Fingernails scratch at the bolted door.

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Author's Note:
This poem was written in the spirit of remembrance - that discriminatory prejudice never sleeps, and must always be called out when it rears its ugly head in whatever shape-shifting guise it chooses to present itself. Look to higher ideals instead of descending and embracing our baser instincts.

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Concentration camps in my head.

Her Blue Tattoo

by LisaMay

The beseeching hand, robbed of its rings and bubbe’s watch, now bent in prayer to its rememberings.

Faint veins of mapped tracery so finely freckled, once downy with a young woman’s peach-like glow. The parchment skin of a lampshade – tinged with tortured memories – shines on her blue tattoo.

Her mother, her sister, her baby – the men gone before: father, brother, uncle. The suitcases’ one-way destination; the children’s shoes, the hair, the spectacles look on and weep.

Twinkle, twinkle, yellow star, how I wonder what you are.

The Witch of Buchenwald and the Auschwitz ovens yawn in bored readiness for more, by a different name.

The cruel fire is the same, fanned by a hot wind of hate. And prejudice. And greed.

Greased by fat-fed apathy, it's all downhill on the slippery slope to grief’s waiting chambers of horrors. Fingernails scratch at the bolted door.