Literature
The Melting Pot
They sat me down on Easter morning
and said that I had to see
the dry-old-man-skin cracked photograph
in shades of fawn and taupe,
smiling faces, waterpaint pink, and blue eyes
over Polish noses, crinkled, laughing.
"He died in the woods."
Katyn (morning fog, red spray, small calibre).
"She died in the fires."
Warszawa (breaking bones, crumbled churches, yellow stars).
"They starved, alone."
Children in the shattering night (a crystal night, sounds so nice).
One blunt finger comes to rest
on a pretty face with a quiet mouth,
one I saw once beneath oxygen tubes
and crepe skin, still able to smile at ninety-eight years.
Hush-shu