Denn
wir sind nur die Schale und das Blatt (Then
we are no more than bark and leaf)
R.M. RILKE
i.m. Janka Blatt
Bunches of keys
hanging from the dying ash
near your old house
remind me of you
and of your final months:
how you were forever
mislaying your keys,
getting them confused,
holding them up to us, upset
and baffled, you with degrees
in psychology and economics.
As though the refugee you'd been
doubted you had truly escaped
and that here was home,
and feared these same keys,
worn and once familiar,
might unlock another door
and you might suddenly step –
like the beloved aunt
who'd sent you into safety –
over the threshold
of Auschwitz.
Anna Crowe
If you have any comments on this poem, Anna
Crowe would be pleased to hear from you.
