Fema

Fema

The Holocaust never goes away.

Even the Deniers keep the horror alive.

My memories are as indelible

as the number tattooed on Fema’s arm.

Alabaster skin and platinum blond hair enthrall

a young girl as Fema styles my frizzy curls.

Leon trims my brother’s hair in the barbershop upfront.

Their daughter, a displaced person at birth, is my mirror.

I heed the command to heal the world,

but shy away from Friday night rituals.

When people question my Jewish identity,

I share my defining memory of Fema.

I know who I am.