An act of kindness

Let's say you are the widow's middle child

still in Heide braids when you first hear 

goose steps in your town.

Let’s say fresh out of school the Luftwaffe 

offers you a good job, they mention travel. 

Let's say you ride in the back of the Mercedes-Benz

Transformable Torpedo, behind your boss

and his driver when the gates open

and transparent beings pour through the camp 

like rushing water, drenched as if they had risen

from the ocean floor.

Let's say sleep comes and goes that night and 

the next morning you place your breakfast

on the window sill and turn your back 

and when you look again the plate is gone 

and you feel relief that a ghost has eaten 

and you are not arrested, your 

giving hand not cut off. 

Let’s say the next day you repeat this act

of kindness and later when all is over, 

in the dark of night you grieve because

you did not do more. 

And let’s say what was not done 

becomes the story in your life

and your life is a protracted mourning 

for it, for what was not done.