I wrote this poem a number of years ago. I'm publishing it here by request.

In the Train Store

I have a mental illness that prozac can’t cure –

I keep thinking of those millions murdered.

I hear a train whistle, and think of the terrible packed trains traversing Europe, carrying             Jews to the death camps.

My shoe pinches, and I think of inmates glad for any foot covering.

My husband weeps at the death of a cat,

And I think of all the people to be mourned.

I have lost a child, and know what grief it –

That cavern of ache that can’t be assuaged.

I imagine mourning for each child killed

Since their mothers can’t – but no, why poison

A good life, a life with a family,

A half-Jewish family that knows not this pain –

Grandpa (the other one) takes us to the model train store;

My daughter says, “I like the cattle car.”

She doesn’t have the disease;

I wince and hide my reaction –

I too loved trains at ten years old.

Will she grow up to feel as I that bleak hopeless grief

For too many to be mourned?

When she learns that her people

Rich and vibrant with song and folklore,

Gentle humor, the victim’s defense,

Finished in flames? the ashes are cold –

I want her to be whole, not maimed

By knowledge of suffering. But I think she has caught my sadness, she already shows             symptoms –

A pang of unknown origin grips her at moments

Between her lightest steps as she goes

Skipping beyond disaster’s shadow

To prove annihilation’s lie.