At the Holocaust Museum
John Grey

This is the worst of what humans
can do to one another, he tells his
youngest daughter.
She hides her eyes from the photographs.
She stumbles on the sheer numbers of dead.
Despite the airy halls,
the air-conditioned galleries,
she feels herself choke.
Have they turned on the gas somewhere?
Are the doors locked?
Are the rooms shrinking?

A hour of this
and she's almost ready to shriek.
Her father is merely numb.
He's here out of duty and respect.
Stories of a grandmother, a great-uncle,
are interred in these walls.
He rubs a finger against marble,
feels bone.

​Eventually, they've seen it all,
sensed even more,
are ready for the outside,
the sunshine.
Gray clouds have gathered.
But lightning, thunder, rain...
no holocaust, just weather.
A sky can only remember so much.

​