Here the grass grew not so tall then
 
Our tour guide calls our attention to this small detail
as a hand moves to stifle a yawn

The day is soft and warm
and the fields bright green
with tiny flowers underfoot
as far as eyes can see

Squinting in the sun
we’re asked to imagine the bitterness of winter
the black boots that trampled spring
 
On such a day as this 
the effort is hard to sustain 
Grass invites the mind to dally and shuffle 
with the sandaled tourists loose file
to note each colorful tattoo and smile
 
But like the rest I’ve come for a lesson
so join the huddle to hear our guide
          These long wooden shacks
          most of which were burned in the retreat
          had once served as stables for livestock
          Many hundreds of men slept in each
 
          Note the long open stone latrine
 
We’re encouraged to conjure human stench
But the air is flush with a tropical tang
of lotions and body cream
the cherry zest of sunscreen
long hair sweet and shower-fresh
 
At our next stop our guide tells us
          The wiring of the perimeter fences was death to touch
          Very few escaped
And in answer to a question she adds
          You may touch it safely now
 
The group looks around
Dumbstruck we cluck and tsk and text
 
          Beyond the fence and that line of trees
          burned the major crematorium
          Prisoners were told its smoke was the product of industry
 
Clouds whelm on a horizon
remote as a Dutch landscape 
 
          In these buildings officers oversaw the camp
          Upon these iron rails rode trains of human cargo
          And this platform is where the cars were unloaded
          Notice where the rails end
          up where the main gas chamber is all rubble now
The guide’s voice is decorous and grave
and we commemorate the horror with a gasp
and shudder
 
And I wonder what she studied in college
where she learned her English
and what her training was like
She’s terrific
 
When our tour is over
we applaud together and quietly disperse
Snacks are lifted from handbags
Bottles are brought to mouths
A group of young men set their cameras atop a stone pile
and smile at the end of the line of rails
 
Everyone will be heading home soon
 
And yet my stomach churns
sickened by history 
the whole goddamned ordeal
of Death and Destruction
and the puniness of everything I know
 
In my little life what’ve I learned
but a fraction of vital lessons
 
And again concentration tilts 
back toward the light of pleasanter things that burn 
where I stand back lit by a summer camp I knew as a kid
in the pines with water guns lanyards cheeks caught clumsy
crimson with poolside desperation for an Alicia I knew at fourteen
glistening again burning forever
for every fruit and tiny flower
blazing in sundresses
blowing on the breeze