her wrists are shackled, / her head’s in her hand.

his rattail and wet neck spikes lumbering skyward

No word enough to contain the “oh” of Shoah.

I offer three ways I love you: (1) for your wild poetic imagination; (2) for your poems about unnoticed people; and (3) for your poems about the Divine.

One by one, I rip the pages and let the heat curl them

sweat, dark circles, the men damp, the women damp, a trace of Ivory soap,