On the children who died of overeating after being liberated from the concentration camps

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They writhe like maggots
in the heat of late summer,
the time when women's bellies
begin to swell and thrum with child.
They writhe in dirt
too-lately plowed by Russian heels;
it is the reaping season now.
They writhe, clutching loaves of bread
like baby brothers -
emissaries from far-off housewife hands;
and hardtack.
They writhe, bloated like balloons
that have no helium
to let them fly,
uttering sounds that were,
ten minutes past,
a prayer:
too full! too much! no more!
To dust.





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