First, you must understand about Drancy:
you must understand that Drancy is not a bad place:
its whitewashed houses are like the open eyes of children;
anthropomorphic blooms are cultivated near pitched red roofs.

A fundamentally comforting cleanliness and uniformity prevail.
Although Jews awaited Nazi deportation here--
betrayed by collaborators or, more often,
Parisian concierges who preferred vacant rooms--

ordinary prejudices are insignificant
when times are good.
No one holds Drancy responsible for a war.
No one from Drancy testified at Nuremberg.

So, when the deportation camp was eliminated
the town resumed its regular life.
Drancy was restored to propriety and uniformity
because times were good again.

My lover told me about the camp
from the terrace of a house which covered the site.
I heard playground screams, and went inside,
and lit gas to steam milk for coffee.

He was suffering from the extraction
of an impacted wisdom tooth. Before going to bed,
he rinsed his gums with iced water to numb the pain.
He awoke when his mouth filled with blood.

The linens were speckled with stains; my shoulders,
his chest, smeared red; the blanket suffused
by animal smells. Though he wept, the strangely agreeable heat
of blood lulled me back to sleep.

In the morning the bed was Nuremberg.
I was on trial for his pain.
Later, the doctor said he'd exacerbated things
himself by flushing the scab off his gums.