Waiting at the station,
the platform held me at attention.
The iron lines lie parallel
and secure with rusty spikes.
Underneath were white stones
large enough to kill someone.
Twin rails, identical, dependent
like a yoke to carry a burden.
Similar tracks would guide
into Auschwitz–Birkenau.
Underneath were white stones
large enough to kill someone.
I stood, head down, hands behind
my back without cuffs.
Thoughts of freedom ring
like scraping of iron on iron.
Underneath were white stones
large enough to kill someone.
There were stations of crossover.
Humans standing, gazing
on the Via Delarosa,
their eyes like two rails.
Underneath were white stones
large enough to kill someone.
It is a Good Friday to stand in a nave.
To look on the One who bore
the railroad ties in juxtaposition.
The oxidized nails set.
Underneath were white stones
large enough to kill someone.
Stationary, I am to remember…
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