Du bist der nächste
We
are
not
becoming
sanctified

to your wide-eyed
billowing death,

or the good
Germans who say:

du bist der nächste

before
the
melting
moon

in the
hollowy
January
when
we
all crumble

and the
ghosts
crawl
like ashes
through my
walls

despite my
midnight
howls
they will not
depart

and father
has nothing
but nightmares,

we will put
you in
a pretty box

a German will kiss me
like an American immigrant
and I will act like my
Polish ancestry means
nothing to
the triangle at hand.

I will let you go,
all things,

I will never
touch you
again,

I will
touch nothing

speak
not

never
at
all.