Museum of Tolerance- Michael Miller

 

The shirtless man by the ticket counter

has already broken the gloom here, his crowd

of two boys and the cashier with the Star of David

gathered around and mouthing astonishment

 

as he tells the tale behind every scar.

Yes, this one on the side was from the camp—

he tells them not to be shy to ask—

when he tripped into the ditch

 

on the run after stealing cigarettes,

the one on the knuckle from punching the soldier

in the bar, brave with whiskey, a decade after.

Touch it, he snarls, jutting out his fist.

 

That split a real Nazi’s lip.

In the rooms behind him, the voices lay low

but touch is the rule, the extended families

passing in fours and fives as tight

 

as at church or the carnival. Are they

all survivors here, dazed and exhilarated

by the fate that dropped them so far from blight?

A father heads the line, shirt fat with muscles

 

and a single proud thumb pushing the stroller;

the woman and girl hug sideways, then again,

tight as dancers in a row. At each display,

the time lines and the whispered assurances

 

reiterate that what is done is done.

Pol Pot is dead, the children of Kampuchea

reading again to go to college; Rwanda

has forgiven itself and opened supermarkets;

 

the ghettos are demolished, the Cold War won.

Sudan, they skip. For now, the beasts are gone.

They face the new life, the one after the mending,

after the last mistakes were made.