The Haunting of Reinhard Heydrich

The ghosts cannot settle,
but they do not haunt—
they scream broken glass
and dance in the flame
of a thousand torches to synagogues
and a crumbling Shabbos.

Yes, you see the beasts of men
and the fire reflects in your blue eyes.
You make the appropriate calls.
Did a ghost ever come to breathe on your neck
And whisper... You can stop this.
No— you don’t believe in ghosts.
You hang up the phone, lean back in your chair.

The future is visiting you:
There will be millions of them—
sitting on your desk
lying in the street
walking beside you down hallways
waiting outside your door
screaming as you pass,
throwing themselves before you
arms lashing out to try and catch you
smiling, laughing, weeping, screaming and mocking.
They know your secrets
everything you hate about yourself
and hiss in your ear about every weakness.
They wrap their fingers around you neck and ask
Do you feel this, my friend?
and you insist, no, there’s no such thing as ghosts
even if they’re choking you.

The hot ash of your cigarette falls onto your desk
and leaves a burn you will never get rid of.