In Kharkiv, the fields have teeth.
The roadside trenches clutch darkness

as volunteers bringing tools to the village
drive slowly past the fluttering markers.

The flaking snout of the burnt-out tank
directs us better than satnav.

*

Stay on the path.
We thread from the crater on the road
to the crater in Natalia’s yard.

Six months on the front line, we
changed hands how many times?
She mimes a helicopter strafing.

A white puff in the distance!
Don’t worry, it’s just sappers.

The funeral was yesterday.
The land’s heave of grief

and its terrible patience. Trees
brandish mistletoe fists at the sky.

*

Leaving, we watch a controlled burn.
The flames snuffle, low and unhurried,

perhaps clear to the border, where
barbed wire sutures past to future.

Westward, through fields stippled with wheat,
Andriy whispers: Ukraine is alive.

The setting sun dimples the earth;
the sky makes truce.

Consider forgiveness. The Russians lay mines
shaped like toys, like petals, like butterflies.

*
From Magma 89, Grassroots 

 

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