The camp is still intact
but thankfully there’s
photographs on walls
not bodies in ditches.
And I don’t have to
prove I’m Aryan.
I don’t believe in
ghosts of course
but the spirits here
don’t know that.
They haunt the nerves out
of my flesh,
the gristle from my bones.
What was that? A scream?
The walls, the concrete floor,
are having a hard time forgetting.
Afterward, we’re in the car,
sitting quiet.
Tears roll down my wife’s cheek.
I’m wondering why this place still exists.
Who needs all this reminding?
I promise her, that tomorrow
our tour will be strictly churches.
More dead of course,
but not guilt… religion.
John-
Good to see you’re still at it. “Lest we forget” applies to both death camps AND old poets. Stay strong.
excellent poem
I double the ‘excellent’!