Screams, embedded history in his sleep; he hates his Holocaust
history, undisguised, vicious,
a German Shepherd unleashed at Jewish playgrounds.
He feels it the way his grandchildren feel his unresolved fear
learned in a language they don’t speak; they cringe when his
broken emotions, whips of war, prevail. But there are no whips.
Just dogs brought to Poland as Nazi pets, snappy as Hitler
Youth; their cruelty unavoidable as tremors his grandchildren
clasp, wear as beads of an heirloomed necklace.