Everything shook and rattled at my school
in the spring of `52, under the flight path
of Lambert-St. Louis Airport. I was eleven,
part of the school’s five-percent Jewish quota.
Times called for careful assimilation—
I went to Jewish Sunday School every week,
but it was in my nearly non-Jewish school
I watched a black-and-white
Holocaust
documentary.
In the dark, alone,
I saw pictures of souls taking flight.
My innocence
rose into the sky,
rattling more than windows.
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