I confess
I am insect,

no more, no

less.

Like a baby

born in Lodz

1943 my

life carries

no consequence.

Who among us

is loved, truly loved?

Your pet cat?

your intruder, Rat?

Lice-infested,

shit crusted

your inmate,

your timeless scapegoat

Your Yid, your nemesis.

All is well

in NaziVille.

The vigilantes are hunting;

the victims are chanting.

God

is the Master

of Cruelty,

or

if god does not exist

and magic is not alive

then surely

those who must avenge

will avenge

with weapons of  fog and dust

with—

with—

fabric that bends

and longing that never ends.