Poems from Blue Tattoo
Father is 56 but looks fine. His face swollen with hunger looks round and full. His well-rubbed cheeks, normal color; no grey hairs. Mother is thin, her face drawn, her hair white. But she is only 42 and her shy eyes have a beautiful young smile. We move slowly through selection. I am told to go to the right. I wait, feel my body a petrified bundle of muscles and nerves. Others come, but not my parents. I elbow my way through the crowd of people, start running toward the Gennans, see a hand raised, recognize a neighbor's face. When I reopen my eyes I'm standing near the same people who tried to hide me. When I get home I see a classmate, Fryda, on the stairway, like a mute, her parents also never returned.