I wrote this poem after I read The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, then spoke to my parents who lived through bombings by the German Luftwaffe. My father’s family house was bombed completely, and they had to move to a different city temporarily during WWII. I have never found a title for this piece, so I leave it Untitled. I use anaphora in this poem too.
Because I never lived through it
Never heard the sirens
Nor saw the spiders under the
stairs, I can see how they were
innocent like us, and hated the
father and knew his lies.
Because I never ran for shelter
during school or dinner or
midnight rendezvouses, I can
feel their horror matched to ours,
and know some had hearts enlarged
to hide just a handful of Jews.
Because I never starved on
rations for years after
never struggled to buy eggs
or flour, I can understand they
were rationed too, and children
played despite the mires.