Alien robots from deep space are coming
to round up and kill all and only
Jews with beards.
I am a Jew with a beard,
at least for purposes of slaughter,
though huddled in our hiding place,
my father, my uncle, grandfather and me
wonder whether our name might pass
for Dutch or German.
The robots are dog-sized, and sniff at our heels
as if to classify us by our smell.
My grandfather, small and wizened,
is taken away without fuss,
and we who are left behind argue
about escape and whether beardlessness
is a state we might endure for the sake of survival.
Taking his chance, my uncle re-appears clean-shaven,
looking like someone else, a new girlfriend
on his arm. This simple act has changed his life,
years of care and failed marriages falling away
with his whiskers. My father, though,
refuses to shave, which angers me.
“Fool!” I call him. “Moron!” He is neither
devout nor brave, so what is he
playing at? Perhaps surviving is too
worrisome a task for such an anxious man.
I worry too, but cling somehow
to the inconceivability
of my own death. I do not think
to shave, since my beard is as much my own
as my face, and how could I swap my face
for another, even if I wished to?
In my tiny cell, square and clean,
I calmly wait for the robots to return,
for the verdict of sensors and circuits,
for the final climb into light or darkness.
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