Dachau

You remember that The air itself was perspiring, As if someone had sprayed it With a bottle of concentrated El Niño. You notice, as you walk, That no one speaks German. Iron-wrought doors greet you As you find the cool relief Of the gate. Arbeit Macht Frei. “Labor makes you free.” Well, Zyklon B does, too. They stood here, in this field, With the same star assaulting their backs. Someone remarks physical training was done here. The world is spinning slowly as you walk Through the old washrooms, Unpainted, ugly, uncouth. Scene of beatings and broken limbs And selection for experiments. Pictures hang about the walls Of men, young, old, and in between, And their faces bear the marks Of an infinite sadness, nay, despair While people from Tokyo city Laugh and take flash photos. You find the ovens, They stand and mock And spill bits of soot On your shoes. In the field, the starry flags wave And the tourists leave, Letting the ghosts go to bed As the sun sets on Dachau.