The only light
is from my laptop
and the first streams
of daylight filtered
through the curtains.

Then, for no reason,
I think of  Wiesel’s
thin novel—just 81
pages—of a Shoah
survivor in British

Mandate Palestine.
He is a freecdom
fighter, a terrorist
some would say,
who will soon

descend the steps
of his safe house
to a cellar where
he will execute
a captured British

officer. One shot,
and it will be over.
What I recall
most? Tbe offcer
is telling a story

as his executioner
squeezes the trigger.
We never hear
the tale, the teller
dies too soon.

This is my dawn,
not Wiesel’s
So why I think
of his dark book
eludes me.

I only know my
room slowly gets
brighter, my dog
sleeps on the couch
and I am alive.