After the war,
I was roaming around
flea markets
full of biker’s helmets
with Iron Crosses
and rusted Lugers.
I was blinded by the sun
when I first saw you—
a rabbi’s daughter,
scraping swastikas
off the Eiffel Tower.
I watched you dance
in your majestic finery
adorned with fine silks,
in a make believe
ballroom to music
no one ever heard.
We met like parallel lines—
meant to connect forever.
Shooting stars lit up
the night sky, burning up
before they hit the ground
as a line of lovebirds
on a wire flew off.