Under the Pink
A pink triangle adorns a young
boy's man-purse. I immediately
know I can trust him, that he and I
are in the same camp – we get called
names on the street, we get picked on
in school, we probably don't get along
with our families. Maybe I'll ask him
where he likes to have coffee.
A few weeks later, I visit Sachsenhausen
concentration camp and see another triangle,
this time complementing black and white
stripes like a blood stain dripping down.
I wonder if its former owner would
want me and the rest of the world starring
at his dirty laundry, turning his nightmare
into a fashion accessory.