Yad Vashem is the Jewish Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem
Bantering, full of boyish bravado
they entered like pups let off the leash.
The mountain of broken boots and shoes
stopped them in their trainered tracks.
Their survivor guide, used to harsher inquisition
answered them directly.
‘Do you hate them now? ’
‘No son, they are not the ones who played football with bundles of babies’ bootees.’
What’s that number tattooed on your wrist? ’
‘My bar code, ready for check out.’
At thirteen not too old to cry
old enough not to want to be seen to.
They left no longer children.
It must have been the sun that made them look like owls
forced to face the day.
Blinking, blinking, blinking.
Dale Harvey's Other Poems
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