When all the women
from the transport had their heads shaved
four workers
with brooms made from linden twigs
swept and gathered up the hair

Behind the clean glass
lies the stiff hair of those gassed
in the gas chambers
there are pins and bone combs
in this hair

No light shines through it
no breeze parts it
no hand touches it
nor rain nor lips

In giant chests
clusters the dried-out hair
of those gassed
and an ashen pigtail
with a little ribbon
pulled on at school by
naughty boys