MICHAELA A. GABRIEL

burano backyard

yellow broom
against blue doorframe:
dust settles.

copyright 2003 MICHAELA A. GABRIEL

WARD KELLEY

The Gypsy's Daughter Enters the Third Reich

from histories of souls



The billows, the flames and spouts of fire,
the smoky deluge of despair, the stains of tears
wafting, drying, in the oven air . . .
I lift the smallest of my daughter's fingers
as if such beauty is our final defense
against the ugliness that some generations
surface in the human heart.

Her arab eyes appear so beautiful,
even stretched now by fear; her saintly nose
slightly flexes, alarmed, by the acrid scent
in this heartless dry air . . . she is so brave
I yearn to explode my lungs in grief,
but I remain calm so I might steer her 
through our final walk together.

Her grownup, brown eyes mean to ask me
why there are such volumes of hate in this world,
so much her little life must be exchanged.
She will spare me this impossible question,
and I thank her with my own eyes,
a father's smile, a kiss of souls, as the soldiers
prod us forward to the stark, concrete building.

This is too much bravery for one man to act out,
too much beauty for one daughter to convey
to her father out here in this forlorn night.
I am deeply proud of us both at the end,
and so I lift her little finger with my thick thumb . . .

a humble wave goodbye to our sinful world,
then I pray this is the proper response
to this horror . . . to meet it
with the smallest act of beauty.

copyright 2003 Ward Kelley