These dark chambers, their bricks colored with
bloody paint, choked gasps from inside
where great puffs of gas sink down quickly,
blanketing the ground, cradling the men
and their twisted arms, starving legs, shaved heads.
And Mr. Cohen huddles against
the wall, pushing to see her brown hair,
her birthday cake with six small candles.
His throat forces out one last breath
to keep his arms around her tiny frame.
His breath still mingles with the air
on cold Polish mornings, singing in
soft nooks, whispering on the northern rays
to hold her hands when they shake.
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