SHOES AT AUSCHWITZ.

SHOES AT AUSCHWITZ.

The shoes are still there
At Auschwitz; the shoes

Of children; piled high,
Relics of a sea of hate and

A death and a burning.
Maybe my shoes are

There, Anny Horowitz
 Says, leaning over your

Broad shoulder gazing at
The screen of images on

The PC; the colours, the
Shapes and sizes, visible

As if yesterday’s capture.
You turn slightly as her

Blue eyes gaze, her long
Blonde hair ghostly against

Your cheek, her words soft
As if breathed out, not uttered.

The small fingers of her left
Hand trace the images slowly

Across the screen, drawing
The outlines, filling in pretend

Colours. You want to utter
Words, to catch thoughts,

To hold her image in mind,
Her words, the blue eyes,

The spirit thing that never dies.
But she’s gone again; the screen

Flickers, the shoes become blurred;
Tears can do that like a drowning.