by Dana Lotito

In the end, 
Szymon Kluger dies the only
Jew in town, 
with normal things one 
needs, I suppose,
and thirty-seven spoons to his name.
He is no Prufrock, he need not dare.
He saw the moon in camp,
a shining pearl push-pin in
coal-black cushion, and thought,
any animal can
claw or rip or chew
but only a spoon can dip,
(soft, slow, don’t spill),
and raise out that glow, still whole. 
All he needs are 
thirty-seven spoons to remind him.
They are a signal, a muted click, 
on nights when the moon is shrouded 
and he shivers under the quilt,
(still whole)
thirty-seven precious spoons  
exquisitely solid, silver, 
rounded, cool on his cracked lips,
(still whole).