Thou hast made summer and winter
I remember this
When the wind howls through the poplars
like souls roiling in a chimney.
Harry Hirschfeld is a stumbling stone in the streets of Berlin
not far from the Apollo Sauna.
The Gordian knot of death and sex takes many forms.
Harry Hirschfeld was cast to his death
on the twenty-sixth of November nineteen thirty-eight
the century in which I was born and gave birth
and like a sea spitting flotsam to the shore
impaled on my childhood’s shoals
the faces, frocks, fading smiles of
Eckhart, Ziva; Eckhaus, Nitza; Lichthaus, Shoshi
maybe because of the Eck
maybe because of the Haus
maybe because of the Licht
maybe because the mind
has its own ways to take wing and flee.