The Poetry Of.
Deborah Rey...................................................
ZOE
You were Zoe,
baby in the bubble
of your Mama’s belly.
Wanted baby.
Wished for baby.
Prayed for baby.
And yet,
this sometimes murderous Fate,
this goddamn cruel Life
decided, that you could not
become Zoe
outside my belly bubble.
Oh, no! It was not just because
you would be somewhat different.
Oh, no! It was because
your little heart could never,
ever be repaired, no matter what.
On the screen we followed
the long needle's work and knew
you would suffer no more.
For me, the long wait until my body
set you free, began.
The tiny outfit, bought in a toyshop,
was too big for your minuscule body,
but the little white coffin
with flowery lining,
looked like a pretty cradle.
You were to be Zoe ...
baby,
toddler,
little girl,
big girl,
woman,
and yet
you couldn't.
Modern medicine could only
help you, by ending your life
before you would have to suffer
too much ... humanly speaking.
My bubble belly felt empty,
felt so cold, my little girl.
And yet ...
you know what, Zoe?
You know what, my child?
Today, tomorrow and all
through the years,
forever you will be.
Because you are
Zoe.
Rawhide
Rollin', rollin', rollin',
cattle cars are rollin'
tchou-tchou trains
transporting people
going east
rollin' past the child
dressed in dark cloths
a dark cap covering her
long, blond hair
hidin', hidin' hidin'
in the ditch
next to the tracks.
Roll 'em, roll 'em, roll 'em,
cries for help, panicked screams
in rhythm with the macabre
music of the wheels.
Hidin', hidin', hidin',
the child, unmoving
in the ditch, cannot help;
curfew is not over yet
she's not supposed
to be out there.
Alone now, the others
brought to safety,
she's waiting for
the sun to tell her
she can go home.
She watches, no tears left,
the cattle cars roll by
watches armed soldiers
guard the railway tracks
not too far off.
Roll 'em, roll 'em, roll 'em,
cattle cars are rollin'
tchou-tchou trains
transporting people,
considered beasts and
subhuman, by beasts
that are convinced they
are the Supreme Race.
The child lies deadly still,
she cannot help, she cannot
wave, shout a few words, not
even share her piece of bread,
her ration for today.
She's hidin', hidin', hidin'
from the very same
self-supremed and
auto-pedigreed beasts,
while the trains keep
rollin', rollin', rollin' by.
Change of Address
(For the Deniers in this world)
If it is true that only
five hundred thousand
people died in the camps
and that the others,
the other Jews that is,
moved away, to Israel,
the States, or to the East,
I do not understand why
not even one of them
sent a change of address
to those they left behind;
the ones that still, even
today, weep over the
loss of them and the horror
they were subjected to
that - supposedly - is not true.
I wonder why, if she was one
of those who simply moved
to the East and did not die,
my Mother ... why my Mother
never even sent me a pretty
postcard from where she
is living now.
