Auschwitz-Birkenau               

by Nanette Rayman

Taste the color of red, a noxious crimson gas the way

you would smell the street after a fierce acid rain. Promise

to tell the extraneous pink dahlias to bless

my people. Our song has always been

blue and white. Press your animal thumbs

to your ashen foreheads, press hard

into your heartless green envy of our survival

beauty. If you cannot get past your gray heritage, try

again slowly. Think of a child stacking block upon block.

After each block, pray for your own souls. The marrow

of my people endures. So insistent is the rain,

we endure and this memorial only makes us know

you are more shameful. We rise like a great tribe

of birds—free. We can soar as high as Ein Sof. The sun

rises alongside the countryside. We rise like a united

fist. We are the birds. Ziporim.

Baruch HaShem.