Holocaust Poetry

Written after reading Hilda Schiff’s Holocaust Poetry at night.

I'd be a good little Christian girl
if only I'd get out of bed
and kneel to say my prayers.

Instead
my thumb flips back the
dog-eared page
of another black hole
and I am sucked
through space
bouncing from world to world
camp to camp.

What is this roar as I read,
this fierceness as I fly?

Tonight I hear
the blood in my neck
black boots
stamping black holes
on the pavement
toward my home.

© 2/17/97, Lois E. Olena