I sit knees drawn up
on the stairs’ ash colored carpet
I am four I ask my father
about that holiday others celebrate
It is 1948 three years
since the grainy newsreels
our gaunt dead
in striped pajamas uncles aunts
He says There is no Santa Claus
In his voice something terrible
something I may never comprehend
yet know I won’t forget
My fingers grasp
at mouse colored tufts
I press back into the stairs
think I am too young to know this
to know that some knowing
formed as a fossil
can’t become unknown
