The Pink Triangle

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.