Go tell your General Himmler that you carried out your massacre,
but there were ten who laughed before they met their demise.
Tell him we were the last of the crowd at Melnikova and Dokhturovska,
of how I stood there next to my Jewish mother
who looked riveted in the midst of the machine gun fire that silenced helpless screams,
holding my head up proudly with my gypsy comrade Plamen
marching arm in arm, unashamed with my queer mentor Nikoli
who wore a tuxedo for the occasion.
And how Lola and Devina shared one last passionate kiss,
reminiscing on the edge of that ravine.
How we shouted our defiance to your Final Solution
and how our screams ricocheted off its rocks into the heavens.
And when the shots went off
when we fell, we all fell together.
The silence was filled with our defiance,
how it carried my Romani lover’s laughter at your Einsatzgruppen
with their blank white collar patches and sleeve eagles made for cowards.
And the wind sang the song of the lesbian lovers’ duet
mocking your beloved Fuhrer.
Run, tell your Himmler that there were ten who disrespected your cruelty
by denying it their fear.