My uncle Henryk is the child
neighbours promised to protect.
They threw him onto the street,
denounced him at the age of nine,
they kicked him and kicked him.
And I am told that my grandmother
knew in a dream from her hiding place
that he was made to bleed to death slowly
on the street.

My grandmother Henia finds her grave
softer now
on the branch that is my middle name.
And same too
my great grandmother Ruth
about whom I can know almost nothing.

My father Roman (Raymond now),
a small child then,
receives reparations payments from the German government.
In spite of his fear, he has grafted
three children to absent bark.
In spite of the flames stalking him,
searing his offspring,
transferring the genetically coded
warning

that who I am
must never be selected (that word)
not for one split second
not ever
not on my life

That if ever I am only a Jew to a Nazi
only a woman to a man
only a soldier to an army
only an obstacle to a bullet

If ever I am only
a number of a name

Then surely
               I am
               on fire
               again.