Speaking to One of Germany's Sons
Speaking to One of Germany's Sons
Elizabeth Rosner
This is not about apology:
what, after all,
can possibly be forgiven
between us
when none of it
and all of it
belongs here.
In the world where you and I
can face one another
like this,
nothing visible to tell us
apart,
familiar ghosts hover
at both our shoulders
whispering in the voices of
our parents
and the dead.
If you were a window and I
at the glass
tried to see through you,
wouldn't I be faced
with my own face,
myself in the glass
looking back and through and beyond?
I'd see your ghosts there too,
in uniforms maybe with dogs
and maybe terrified,
maybe trying to shape
the word Why or even
No.
And if not, if your ghosts
have blood on their hands,
what can I say about that?
Did any of us ask
to be born into this place
or that one?
Could our fathers know
that we would come after them
trying to make our own mistakes
come out right?
Don't our mothers hope
that our sleep is sweet
and untroubled,
that our hands don't tremble
when we stretch them toward
one another?