Majdanek

Forty eight hours.
This Nazi machine could be humming.
It could be my fingernails
leaving scratches on cement stained blue.
My body helping with the unnatural slope of the land
covering
an eighteen thousand person
grave.
My ribs poking through
sallow flesh.
My ashes among the seventy tons
resting
in the mausoleum.

Why is the sunset,
blocked by the crematorium chimney's silhouette
the most vibrant I have ever seen?
Jewish teenagers shivering
clinging tightly to Israeli flags, wailing -
Eli, Eli
Surely I should be crying.

I huddle against the bus window,
seeing nothing
in the Polish night.
I leave
for all those who could not,
and welcome sunlight
the next morning
for the millions who
did not.