Placed on a pile tenderly
as if to encourage brief sleep,
or easily torn from a tiny fist –
a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand
companions and twice the number
of unseeing eyes made of glass.
No child parent came back
to reclaim their mannequin infant,
no sudden cry, no crouching down
to draw them out from the dune.
The hut where they were taken
was cool and dark, on shelves
they placed them head to toe
layered like sardines to save space.
The laundry girl was conscripted
because she could knit and sew
new outfits for the stripped naked;
gowns, bows, sailor suits and blouses.
The master made his selection;
this one shall be a little SS man,
a festive gift for my son back home,
Christmas is for family as you know.
Carefully she buttoned them,
smoothed the new frocks down,
laid her changelings carefully
like fine wines nestled in straw,
Deutsche Bahn to Frankfurt,
Leipzig, Heidelberg, Cologne.
She gathered up the old clothes,
tiny shed skins still registering
the half-light of an owner,
the questioning gleam of sequins,
cream lace to cool a flushed face,
on a pretty blouse the bloodstain
left by a careless red crayon.
