Moon over Munich

(from the moon series)

The moon over Munich hidden, unseen, silent, evokes anger
and hatred. Passes the days without eating.
Reads books on relinquishing a shroud.
Hums without a sound, a wish, a prayer,
a hope as its belly burns and roars and others,

cattle fed and spoon fed and sun fed, eat
their way through cold showers
against the horizons black smokestack chuff
counting 1 million, 2 million
artists and their frames,
bullets and their guns,
teeth and their crowns,
mothers and their names

bold! as the moon over Munich
folds itself in half, slips down the cobblestone alley,
swaggers and stumbles, drunk
and drunker than 1944,
meddles with a yellow bicycle
chained to the fence of a daunting cathedral black,
stands guard on a German night
and plops down through the water
to the bottom of the fountain in the center of Marian Platz.

Dachau

Rocks on the ground and the blood between toes
two thousand
no less, it's cold and I feel like suffering.
You can't face death alone without knowing
the candles unlit, the bricks unbuilt, the letters
and language disseminated into tiny tears,
and tears do not stay
just the hole to let light in
just the clock on another's wrist
just the food that you're given.

I've no family here and the bones
underground with the blood
and the dirt and the ash in the sky
turned to sunsets and clouds
sixty five years after
souls slipped from bodies
by bullets and sickness
and I'm no good witness to murder.

Intervals

This lazy Wednesday train ride the trees
and buildings are just silhouettes on the horizon,
fuzzy under a thick gray layer of fog,

The old couple next to us
sucking the lips off each other,
Whispering Deutsch love words,
Giggling fourteen year olds,

Ah but the world is a white rose
in a golden cornfield with love in your eyes,

And the subtle caress of the hair,
and the winds subtle caress of the grass,
and the subtle caress of my ego pretending it's content,

This giant worm crawling out of a mountain,
out of the alps, inching toward the Siberian cold
with a warm belly,

(These intervals between stations between sleep between food,
these intervals between kissing between the touch of another
this silence and space. These intervals between trees
between musical notes between birthdays between tragedies
between speaking and writing. These intervals between houses
between paychecks between laughing and climbing.
These intervals between play between friends between phones.
These intervals between haircuts between movies
between exercise. These intervals between flying between taxis
and shit. These intervals between letters between emails and words
between pages. These intervals between questions between answers
between yeses and nos these intervals and in between),

This friend in Vienna and her boyfriend and their lives there
between tall, tall buildings made long ago,

Now the lone house sits on the horizon slanted
red shingled roof and white clay walls, a kiln
in the winter time baking a family from birth to death.

On the Eve of Christmas Day

So he brought up the Nazis and he brought up the guilt and he brought up
generations over beer
and over bratwurst and he brought up the difference so we asked
about his wife
she is my star not my wife so we brought up the difference
and he brought up
the shame and I look out the window of the train to Salzburg
without bringing up my day
without bringing up Dachau without bringing up our visit
but he brought up the Jews
and he severed the ideas and I asked about community and now the hills
they start to roll
as we slide into the alps and he brought up boats in Venice and he said there,
there is community
and now the ground is white with snow and he brought up peace
and he brought up
our president and he said thank god for that man and now all the roofs
are red brown
and all the walls are white and he brought up at the table
where we shared
all those cheers he brought up all the history that is still
just on his heels
and he brought up all the shadows there's always shadows where you kill
and now the mountains
start to climb and there nestled is the clouds and he brought up reputation
and he brought up marzipan
and I am dying to be open and he brought up what is right in the shadows
of the Reich
and he brought up the difference this old socialized physician and now
we cross a river
and we brought up just the surface in that old beer hall in Munchen
on the eve of Christmas day.

Johanna Nassauer Blum

I found you in Berlin.
My blood.
Perished mysteriously.
In the mechanics of war.
In the middle of a field
of pillars so high
no sight around corners
just the crunching of snow
the marching of feet
the prison strip light
the bodies just glimpses.

When you enter you vanish
and who knows where is the exit?
You lose track of directions.
You only hear tongues.
You learn to trust intuition.

And I am fortunate.
As my hand writes,
getting colder and colder,
I can put gloves on
and walk into a warm building
as a Jew.