Elegy for Us Both

At the time of your second death, phones were still slow & dumb

like the tides. My Nokia had a fit on a towel that day at the beach

hours after they found your sand petrified. My father’s voice

always: She died. Long story. Get on a plane. I did.

(I cried.) Don’t laugh but the rabbi spoke as a young man of his

new bride. He neglected to mention you always said religion reeked

of pesticide. His mouth spat the camp you & your sisters

survived: Treblinka, Janowska, Gross-Rosen, Kaiserwald.

It’s all one. I wept when you died, but, forgive me, not

for your death, but for mine. We all get two deaths & I used

up my first one at tender twenty-five. People came to

me preoccupied: it must’ve seemed we’d been quite close.

(I lied.) We barely knew each other. You never knew anyone,

never married, tiny, bug-eyed. We’d only talk at the table

on high holidays, side by side. Oftentimes the subject was Fidel

Castro: I’d call him a murderer, you’d bite violent with

communist pride. It doesn’t matter anymore, nothing does,

yet we still try. You could never hold a job, too precious &

unqualified. I tell people I don’t like the beach, but never mention

you; it’s implied. I’m writing this in the dark, dear great-aunt,

& I’m not satisfied. Failure isn’t the waning of hope—I wish!—

it’s the murder of hope mid-stride. Hurt left your face

in my brain calcified. Would you tell me how

it happened? Is that you? What’s that? You’re outside?