A poem by Antony Owen
Anne Frank Went Quietly
“At Bergen-Belsen, you did not have feelings anymore. You became paralyzed.”
Irma Sonnenberg Menkel
They gave the townsfolk kerchiefs at the gate
dressed in their best they toured Jerusalem ruins –
a torched barn with obedient bones covered in frost,
potatoes sprouting roots over a moat of Jew-dug humans, yes humans.
Anne Frank went quietly, and I believe that day a quill fell from a raven,
written on the death perfumed wind was her frail body and
typhus makes a rash like a universe of red stars on skin
if she needed water then rain was her last cleansing.
There was a Ukranian soldier who killed a pig for the prisoners and they
stole a butcher from a hamlet to cut it into quarts with cleaner knives
they got sick from eating fast and all the ovens were blocked.
All the stoves whistled like Hansel and Gretel’s witch.
Anne Frank went quietly and should you get a papercut on her diary,
if you feel a sting then look out for a bee pulsing on the sill
that is the last breath of Anne Frank, it is a flower’s death
and do not think of Israel or Gaza, keep her pure, pure.