Like ink on the blotting paper, the number
tattooed in Auschwitz splinters and spreads
on the inside of my lower left arm
when I ride the tram in the summer
and, forgetting myself, I happen
to reach up in my short-sleeved shirt
to hang on to the strap.
* * * * *
May I never lift my right arm
if I forget the mark on my left.
http://www.smokestack-books.co.uk/book.php?book=35
