Some will deny this happened.
This always happens when they realize it could have been them —
either the ones that made it happen; or, the ones it happened to.
Complicity is the same as victimization.
There are some will say this event was a lie.
No one can fake the aftermath of carnage,
so they exaggerate truth with some lies
until anything is possible or impossible.
Conspiracy is a word to the unwise.
Some will say the death squads are imaginary.
Tell that to the nameless buried in mass graves.
Tell that to the ones identified.
There are some prayers that seem useless.
Some will say the killing fields never happened.
Tell that to the ground-up bone fragment.
Tell that to the ones never coming back.
Tell that to the incinerators working overtime to erase evidence.
Some will say, I should not write this.
Some say, I will be silenced for it.
Some say it threateningly.
They say they know where I eat.
They say they know what I think when I eat breakfast.
They also say that this never happened.
They say this, eating their own words.
The internment camp is lovely today.
My; how the sun glitters off the towers.
Every night, I plan my perfect escape.
It must be dark, starless cold as a guard’s breath.
I must blend through razor wire.
I must evaporate, levitate as droplets.
When they conduct ROLE CALL, I won’t say ONE.
They will have to start all over with the count.
They won’t realize what is missing will not return.
And that distant woodpecker — will be me
sending messages of rescue
for those still caged,
mostly skin and bones,
mostly less each day.
What Have I Left Behind
A locked door against the approaching night.
A memory of curtain. A rattling window
in disturbed wind.
A kitchen, perhaps, the stove lit,
a pot burned black with neglect.
A blackout. A rug worn down,
exhausted by waiting.
Toothpaste tube strangled to get more information.
The mirror seeing me leaving with nothing to say.
The upstairs bed, unmade, disturbed by the fleeing.
A rush of clothes. Where did I go?
The unsettling surrounding where I used to be.
Martin Willitts Jr retired as a Senior Librarian and is living in Syracuse, New York. He is currently a volunteer literacy tutor. He is a visual artist of Victorian and Chinese paper cutouts. He was nominated for 5 Pushcart and 3 Best Of The Net awards. He has three full length books "The Secret Language of the Universe" (March Street Press, 2006), “The Hummingbird” (March Street Press, 2009), and “The Heart Knows, Simply, What It Needs: Poems based on Emily Dickinson, her life and poetry” (Aldrich Press, 2012). His forthcoming poetry books include “Waiting For The Day To Open Its Wings” (UNBOUND Content, 2013), “Art Is the Impression of an Artist” (Edgar and Lenore's Publishing House, 2013), “City Of Tents” (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2013), "A Is for Aorta" (Seven Circles Press, e-book, 2013), "Swimming In the Ladle of Stars" (Kattywompus Press, 2013), and he is the winner of the inaugural Wild Earth Poetry Contest for his full length collection “Searching For What Is Not There” (Hiraeth Press, 2013).