Poetry About Concentration Camps

A clerk reduced each person to a number. Wire cut the winter into smaller skies. Shoes waited where their owners could not return. Yet names endured in letters, scars, and witness. We read them slowly, refusing easy distance. Memory is a duty carried by the living.

Evening changes the weight of the scene. Shoes waited where their owners could not return. A smaller detail comes forward. We read them slowly, refusing easy distance. Meaning gathers without raising its voice. Memory is a duty carried by the living.

A clerk reduced each person to a number. Hours pass, but the image does not leave. Shoes waited where their owners could not return. It returns us to persecution, imprisonment, witness, stolen names, survival, mourning, and historical responsibility. We read them slowly, refusing easy distance. The day continues with a more attentive heart.