A N N E X    P R E S S   2 0 1 5 

I can’t say much
about the place

he chose to be
buried almost 7

decades ago, I
don’t remember

where it is, only
he’s concealed

among Jews – I
do recall that

much & recol-
lect the poor

memorial, its 6
sides of stone

may be thought
each to indicate

a path through
weedy under-

growth, but none
remains. A

visitor finds its
inscription hard

to make out: if
those are words

on the stone? But
what visitor?

I’m here today
as you can see

(in memory or
in words) &

often for (al-
though no longer

told) as a child
stories about

the place – in
gestures as

much as, more
than, words –

absorbed me
fixing its loca-

tion & giving
me mine, since

when any
route I’m on

seems at some
point to inter-

sect a path I
might (will?)

take to find it
or even offer

a glimpse of
the marker, an-

other chance to
to struggle over

its inscription
but I doubt

there’s any
message: only

the wear of time
nothing erased

by it. Indeed
so overgrown is

the memorial by
now that often

I don’t notice
where I am for

some time or
at all. Of some

visits I learn in
retrospect – say

if the stone’s
shadow should

appear in memory
or vice versa

while of others
no doubt I’m

not meant to be

aware, for like

all stories this
one can accord

to its real only
to reveal his

decades as
they disappear.