No one would suspect it was she.

We met in Boston on a spiritual retreat.

In her sweet Tennessee drawl, straight sandy hair,

melting chocolate eyes, gentle bird of a body.

Her name was Jessica, her last name America,

her drawling darling demeanor far from

the barbed Nazi Germany salutes.

In her heart, no hatred harbored of the Jews.

We sit and eat our green peas,

and talk about love and being kind to everybody.

"He was my great grandfather" she says, as if it's the next best thing,

and I nodded through a mouth full of food.

Me, a west-coast girl from British Columbia,

miles of years between the Third Reich and I,

I smile, and share her acceptance.

"Rommel was my great, great uncle."

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