Kill

 
He started in a town in Italy,  
Said his name was ‘Kill’ in another life,  
Which was when his family lived in Warsaw;  
 
An ideal life; Father taught piano.  
When he could move about in the ghetto,  
He became an itinerant tradesman.  
 
‘Kill’, yet a boy when war was to ignite  
Years after his mother died, still-birthing,  
When he was nine, his brother only two.  
 
But that was then, and this is also then.  
Where had he been but scavenging gutters,  
A carcass, looking for another way;  
Scared a patrol would catch him red-handed  
 
And iris in on the target, too late,  
For his father had held the boy and babe  
Tight as he swept the three of them away  
In the night when the artillary would  
 
Illuminate the smoke from explosions;  
The sounds yet to reach the fleeing shadows  
Flickering below, their impenetrable  
Wails drowned in the delayed booms, echoing.  
 
At the northeast corner of a littered  
Intersection, where a once grand  
Eight-story building, now a shell, compared,  
 
With blown-out windows of the hotel stood,  
And all utilities and water gone,  
Where they’d try to rest till morning’s first light.  
 
An Indian woman from Calcutta,  
Had set up her fugitive slum home there
And took them in, believing them gypsies.  
 
Gave ‘Kill’, his brother and father, shelter;  
Her ivory tower flat still had windows.  
She said there was food saved for the morning.  
 
‘Kill’ was hungry. No one had eaten since
The night of the day before yesterday,
And even then it had been something raw.

The night too was hungry and wearied on.  
As the others slept, the boy’s eyes glowered  
At the door, hearing cracks out in the hall.  
 
They popped just like a roaring fireplace.  
He slowly slid backwards under the bed  
On which the others laid, spooned together.  
 
‘Kill’ waited, holding his breath forever.  
A brief flashing of light lit up the room  
To reveal a gaunt German soldier crouched.  
 
The boy in the shadow of the light’s fade  
Watched, as the soldier crept to a corner  
Where an icebox silently stood, powerless.  
 
‘Kill’ would not endure this final insult,  
For an enemy to steal what was left!  
He stealthy came out from under the bed.  
 
The soldier was on his knees reaching up  
Trying to yank the icebox door open,  
The boy was pulling out his pocket knife.  
 
Suddenly, his stomach began to growl.  
The soldier looked quick over his shoulder.  
‘Kill’ pushed in the blade to open his throat.  
And that’s what he did; their food was now safe.