The War First Thing in the Morning

They’re still fighting. Just look
at the map that changes daily
with promises broken, lies unlatched
in the Kremlin. Days strung together
like a terrible habit. A young medic
with long red hair rests in a café,
her legs shaking, love songs long gone.
She wants to go home but there’s no
pretending anymore. She’s a long way
from safety. No consolations, not even
a small one in the margins of this town.
The rest of us struggle to decipher
Putin’s arrogant mess—gone too far.
Everything feels otherworldly with soldiers
left dead in the road, grandmothers waiting
in line for food, a small child hugs her teddy bear,
surrogate babies left in a bunker. The stained faces
of mothers, combine with the dust of bombs.
One world mingles with the others. All of us
have lost. Too late to dwell elsewhere. Still, we want
to back away, to lower our gaze. To find refuge
in the stars. To cradle the dead and blow them a kiss.