Body Art
High noon this winter day
and blackbirds fill
the bare branches
of my dead neighbor's tree.
Max would have loved these birds;
they're as raucous as he was,
bobbing and clucking
as if they're debating
where to fly next.
Suddenly they know
and shoot from the tree.
They're gone but I shout
"Godspeed!" anyway
in behalf of old Max,
immigrant from Auschwitz.
He may be dead but
the numbers on his forearm
glow in my dreams.