Holocaust Muscle Memory

A poem for my ancestors…

Waking with weighted blankets over my eyes, small blindfolds that shield me from the encroaching daylight, too bright to exist on such a day as this. 

The memory of muscles twisted and burned, something imagined yet also witnessed, my ancestors cringe and shriek in the wind. 

We shall not forget this feeling, the loss of life and decency, the loss of morals and the gain of power.

Crying tears that rip my insides out, laying my guts on the table to be dissected into sheets of white or black and pages of brown or yellow.

This day has sunlight in it, as does every other day, there is nothing different, in the same breath of gas there is everything the same. 

Equality can only be found in the library, balanced on bookshelves opposite each other, the titles and cover pages arguing amongst themselves.

History holds many lies, who is it that speaks the solution, when the problem is deeper than blood runs wet.