The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat.
The fat
Sacrifices its opacity....
A window, holy gold.
The fire makes it precious,
The same fire
Melting the tallow heretics,
Ousting the Jews.
Their thick palls float
Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt-out
Germany.
They do not die.
Grey birds obsess my heart,
Mouth-ash, ash of eye.
They settle. On the high
Precipice
The birds seem not to represent anything positive —  they are clearly not doves of peace — but manifestations of the Holocaust which “obsess” the narrator’s heart. They are grey like the smoke from the gas ovens. They would seem to reinforce her identification with the Jews and heretics. 

Marys Song