The Pink Triangle
Erik Rasmussen
A monolith of hate,
and the permanence of love,
sewn onto a pair of striped pajamas
or painted on cardboard signs
held high in the streets
by desperate hands.
I have seen the photographs,
tired warnings
of men reenacting,
or maybe reclaiming,
the past.
Now, it is my turn.
After he choreographed the salute,
“All I see are pink triangles,” he said.
I think he meant,
“I feel your pain, we are brothers.”
But even after the clothes are washed,
and the lights are off,
and the audience gone,
the mark remains
imprinted upon that breast
which I must cover
to pledge allegiance.