Abhorred. O she was. And how she lived for
More than a century. A darling really
Except for her love of the camera. A woman
No one ever saw crying. Recall how much
Of her there was to go around. Filming
The crowd. How wanted she was. They said
She'd slept with Hitler. The grandstands.
They said she'd slept with Morris, too,
The American who won the decathlon
And later played Tarzan in the movies; he
Ripped open her blouse and kissed her
Breast before 100,000 people. The crowd.
The film. No one dying. Imagine, Hitler's
Voice lived inside her head for 70 years.
The sound of the crowd. An old typewriter
Surfacing. There was no cliff she couldn't
Jump from. And survive. And later no sea
That was not her scene. The crowd. No
One else got off like she did. The film.
To her Jesse Owens was merely four
Gold medals. A few camera flashes.
Seconds. The lathe of the turnstile. The reels
And reels of celluloid she sent to Hamburg.
She only met Owens that once. Not
Wonderful. Not at all. They spent half
An hour debating. She predicted he'd go
Back home and race against horses. And
So he did. She admonished him not
To piss off the Führer. The film of his
Torch. And so what if Owens replaced
That Jewish sprinter in the 400-meter relay;
Owens was supposed to be the man who
Stood in for all minorities, everywhere.
The torch. The camera. The crowd. Leni
Admonished him. And now I you:
Take this book. Finger its edges. Flip
Its pages like the frames of a film. Her torch.
Her sea. Rip apart the binding like that
Delicate blouse she kept in a safe. Prepare
For the prejudice of your own dreams.
That frail body of hers. That furor. That film.
That crowd should have been crying.