Oh, we remember the ovens.
The gas chambers, the piles of shoes.
What we don’t remember is the silence.
Our silence. We don’t remember the life as usual,
walking on shattered glass to the grocery store.
We don’t remember smelling something
in the air, feeling something and replacing it
with some other feeling.
We don’t remember the nothing we said
when the policies were instituted,
the nothing we did
when our neighbors disappeared.
We forget how we practiced
not seeing what we were seeing.
We pray not that we remember
but that we see.
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