in response to eliezer wiesel’s night

by Jasmine Kapadia

this is the moment skeletons became atheists. gold lodged in the back of
throats and stuck, rigor mortis like you never had a chance. and maybe
the soup tastes like corpses,
or maybe the soup tastes like god. or like angels, and
cracks in the barbed wire. because skeleton is a synonym for survivor,
in other words, you are the last one standing, in other words,
where is your body? today the soup tastes
like dirt, a fire, the only thing stronger than hatred, a fire, the only thing
stronger than railroad tracks, a fire, 
madness, a fire, family, a fire. if it is a delusion to think this sculpture
hasn’t dried yet,
this clay hasn’t been consumed, broken glass or crowbars,
does that make faith strong enough to convince yourself?
does that make remorse strong enough to forgive yourself? is there
anything
to forgive yourself for, a can of worms. hope, a fire, the warm kind. 
soup is thicker today. 
the bombs are bright in the sky. they look like stars.