In the concentration camp called Home
In the concentration camp called Home,
we report in striped pajamas
to the barefeet commandant,
Our Mother orchestrating
our daily holocaust.
Burrowing her finger-
-nails through my palms,
a scream frozen between us,
a stalactite of terror
in the green caves of her eyes
there, sentenced to forced labour:
to mine her veins of hatred
to shovel her contempt
to pile scorn upon scorn
beating(s) a path.
At noon, Our Mother
leads us to the chambers
naked, ripples of flesh
she turns on the gas
and watches our hunger
as her food devours us.
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