arbeit macht frei

what strikes me
is the resemblance between
the pile of wire rim glasses
and
the pile of bodies

my grandma
tells scraps of stories
but the image
i remember most
is pots of soup
so deep and heavy
she could not
carry them
alone

she never told me
if they gave her stripes
shaved her head
took her photo
naked
with a number plate

wide columns
of saturday new york times
report
theft of the
wrought iron banner
over auschwitz
claiming
arbeit macht frei
(work sets you free)

ten years ago
i walked under that sign
doing the math:
1998 minus 1944

staggering
at the sliver
of a time gap

back pack slipping from shoulders
lunch and water zipped inside
some of us
did not know
how to eat
in the presence
of ghosts
still starving

after a bus ride
through country
so familiar i ached

in the place
she calls
the old world
lace curtains
railroad track crossings
potatoes
for sale
at the side
of the road
and even though
i could not speak the language
i knew the sounds
and they were a version
of coming home

ten years ago
i confronted
mountains of
shoes
suitcases
hair

i prayed
even though
i didn’t know
how

then
praying looked like
meeting
every set of eyes
on the infinite wall of photographs
each face
a rosary bead

praying looked like
digging around
through red backpack
for a pen
when the words
clung
stubborn
to the warmth
of
my ribcage

praying was a quiet
deeper
and more layered
than the quiet
beyond
a confessional door

i remember
the black wall
through metal bars
here,
here,
here,
is where we set candles
to soften the image
of a firing squad
gunmen
aiming
into the eyes
chests
skulls
of hollowed humans
barely able
to hold themselves
up

tenacity
standing in for
atrophied muscle