Classic Poem

Perhaps there are real angels who assist
the ghosts of martyrs to the other side,
since what is left behind cannot resist
the flames of hell? A family of three died
slowly at the hands of hateful men,
and Yaakov Prenner, holding match and gas,
looks at the residue of pain: a ten
inch block of wood lodged in the father’s ass,
skin peeled from the mother’s neck and back,
brain matter from the infant on the floor.
He knows the enemy will soon attack,
and that if caught he won’t survive the war.
In Yiddish he commands his men to pour,
to strike, and like Lot, never to look back.