All Aboard the Death Train
She felt nothing on the train,
squashed between Uncle Harry
in his drooping black trousers
and her old Bubby, who
moaned aloud in Yiddish, raising
her voice to Yahweh, “Vat the
hell is going on? We done
nothing wrong.”
The train rocked, heading for
hell. She put her arm around
Uncle Harry and Bubby
who still wore her inherited
jade earrings, shaped like
a tiger.
This, you must remember.
Keep your eye on the birds
flying overhead, remember our
lovely homes with the gauzy
lace curtains, and if death
calls your name, remember
your Chaya loves you.
Ruth Z. Deming has had her poetry published in Mad Swirl, Poets Haven and Bookends Review. A psychotherapist, she lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia in the good old USA. View her blog at www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com.