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You could never say "I love you" in Yiddish.
Late at night when you daydream
in front of the washing machine
with your eyes half closed.
I know your brain churns with
the image of glittering bottles
broken along the Polish railways.
Through Warsaw and onto Oświęcim.
Whistling through the mottled countryside.
Every brown and green bottle shines.
Having met their end on wood and metal.
Unwilling, Unlike me
I am your prisoner, I am your Jew.
My omnibus, take me to my fate.
Your eyes heavy lidded and paradisiac
will fly open, as you close the door shut
on the washing machine.
Open your mouth to call for me:
I will be gone,
Zyklon B released me.
You did not have the heart to.
