The Shoes Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Holocaust relics-
A roomful
A raceful
A hateful
Of survivors.

Uninvited, unasked, unnoticed
By leather and lace,
By sole and tongue,
By eyelet and buckle,
We step into the room-

One by one
Our thoughts take a cold shower.

No cut-price bargains here,
No nice nostalgia,
In this shop window installation
Of quiet horror.

It is not the poems
That follow you out
Down Washington’s wealthy sidewalks

It is not the family photos
That dog you, much, much later
Scratching away at your door,

It is a child’s sandal, scuffed across the toe,
An old man’s surgical boot ingrained with dust,
A dancing girl’s high-heels,
A widow’s slippers,
Inhuman horrid survival
Of the fittest.