throughout the city, stolpersteine — literally stumbling stones,
polished brass plates roughly four inches square — bear the names
and significant dates of those taken to ravensbrück, theresienstadt, and so
on as reminders. two discretely mark the entrance to our airbnb, saying
here, and also, not here. in the small cemetery near the volkspark,
a fox relieves itself on a headstone at dusk. the joke in my family goes
like this: pressed for her opinion on the actions of the third reich
in the years before and during the second world war, my german
grandmother’s german mother hedged, they didn’t do what was
right. [ungut.] i myself can’t comprehend how anyone could stand
to live so far from the crush — curse, crutch — of the sea. my own mother cannot 
mention the american river without also bringing up the drownings: too much 
anything can kill as sure as not enough. so which of these then are
you? the mother? the grandmother? fox? river? stones?

                                                                                                                              throughout the city, names, 
                                                                                                                     reminders. in the cemetery, a fox 
                                                                                                                      a joke: the actions of my german
                                                                                                          grandmother. i can’t comprehend so far. 
                                                                                                                        my own american river can kill

                                                                                                                                    enough of these stones.