In July I thin parsnips,
pulling pale taproots
too small, too crowded.
Twinged by conscience
I retrieve the best,
scrub and dice them
for a salad.
At Auschwitz nothing
was wasted. After the harvest
of hair, the healthy went
to slave labor. Children,
the old, the infirm
were sent to the showers.
Almost 100 kilos of gold
was collected from corpses
in less than 65 days.
Warehouses filled up
with suitcases, clothing
and shoes.
After the first hard frost
I dig up broad-shouldered roots,
find a pair left too close together.
Entwined, they refuse to separate
and are cooked as one.
previously published in Nemadji Review (University of Wisconsin-Superior)
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