My children and I rode
the comfort of a modern train to Dachau, thinking nothing.
And there is no word enough
to hold history in our mouths and swallow.
No word enough for me to carry to my children,
enough to let them mouth silence
as, together, we descended
the path to the black memorial—
and laid small stones in the shape of the last letter of our alphabet
to build a connecting path to heaven,
the trees beyond us, trudging into the sedate, wordless town.
No word enough to contain
the “oh” of Shoah.
No word enough to gaze on the black-cindered acres
and comprehend the expansive sky that goes on.
