The Photographer at Oswiecim
shorn like sheep,
bags piled miles high into
an empty grave,
hunger and thirst soften
resolve to live,
they sit for the
photographer.
Desolate faces gaze blankly
at him,
the thousands who will take
the gas,
become puffs of smoke.
He records them with his
photos.
They like to record, to museum
victims
to hear Wagner in the primal
scream of the innocent,
in their last photographs.
The photographer sees the pyre
of Faces,
their engraved wavy
expressions of fear.
He poses them to imprint their
humanity--
skinny women in their
oversized striped costumes, rakish caps he designs,
bald, naked women prepared
to meet Mengele, their unmaker,
hollow-cheeked men clip-clopping
in their ill-fitting wooden clogs,
trusting children who laugh
uneasily at his jocular faces.
They all sit for his camera
to record having been.
Their pictures keep the
photographer alive--
extra pieces of bread,
meat occasionally thrown
into the broth,
and shots of schnapps to
bring on forgetfulness.
Testaments, he refuses to
destroy when ordered.
Forgotten, guiltless faces
peering back at him.
The camera burned his hands,
black and white pictures seared
and left a hollow place.
No beauty in them,
but he could not destroy
them.
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