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Picture of Sybil Smith In My Museum

Available Now - Hanna Duston's SisterIn the bin of shoes,
worn, brown,
down at the heels,
sealed with preservative,
imbued forever
with what they knew,
slack-tongued,
voiceless,
at rest, now, at last;

In the bin of shoes
is a lady's fancy pump.

This is what
undoes me, finally.
I see her standing
in long lines,
carrying a smart suitcase,
regretting her elegant footwear,
watch her stumbling
from the cattle car
and limping down
the wrong line,
defiantly dressed
for a better world.

The hair is next,
a mountain none can climb.
A thick blonde braid
curls amidst
the heap of darker hues,
the brown like shoes,
the black
black
as the hearts
at Babi Yar.

Don't touch, the signs say.

Plastic walls
hold me back

like the sheets of normalcy
that leave some tearless.

The ache of my feet
is rendered meaningless.

I weep and wish
for something worse.

In my museum
I wear the shoes,
shave my head
and lick
the empty bowls.

Nothing will do
but pandemonium,
pleading, howls,
the absolution of blood.

In my museum
God stands behind a wall
where none can touch,

and I am one
among them.

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