There are twenty feet green
from my window to Mother's garden
and the bronze Tibor planted at Dachau's death.
Killed by the liquid twirl
the flutter of his creation's scarf,
high to wind.
I know he has no tattoo
for I have seen the shirtsleeve uptucked
with no blue number scarecrow
on his ulnar curve.
He marched; stood shivering on the front--
a human sandbag, no arms
to do a Russian's workday service.
Return to Noah-numbered lives at fire
a yellow ill-star contrast
to America's fat boom, my mother
barely born. But sculpt for her now
a whistle bird of bronze, a woman free.