Die Arbeiterin
Jake K.M. Paikai
My numbered arms sift stones out sweet Spring’s decaying soil, fresh with flowers and baby limbs. Children and men ground into graphite earth, grey soot in which they write Arbeit macht Frei. und arbeite ich, arbeite ich—stitch marks with my rake into icy Poland’s face. When I was four, on a lark, I jumped off a rooftop, thinking I would fly. Now I hold this plough, my insides aching with child— is it fair to wish my life had ended with a splendid dive?
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