Under the Pink

I
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.

II
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.