by Joan Leotta
Somewhere in Ukraine, a child
measures her steps to school wondering
if her home will be standing
when the last bell rings,
if her parents will be safe if bombs fall,
if her school can shelter her
and her friends in the basement,
if she can find and reach her parents
should rubble, smoke fill her town.
Each time Putin spews out
his verbal assaults her hope erodes.
I know this because in October, 1961
when Castro fired verbal assaults
bragging on the power of his Soviet missles,
I lived in a likely-to-be targeted town.
As I climbed each of the 150 steps
From the bus stop to the top of the hill
To reach the gothic doors of the
1930s building that was my school,
I stopped on each step to pray
that we would all be safe,
and above all, that
my mother who
worked miles east from our home
and my father who worked
miles west from there
would find me and we would
face together
whatever terror Castro inflicted.
Each day my hope eroded, restored
when we escaped the physical horror
all those years ago.
But this morning, February 24, 2022
that Ukrainian child’s hope is gone
in a mudslide of fears made real,
playing out with troops and
air strikes and people rushing
about in fear. Her hope ended, I
hope for her that no matter what, her family
will remain together, sheltering
each other with their love.
Author's Note: This poem has been in my heart for several days. Yesterday’s New Yorker article "The Crushing Loss of Hope in Ukraine" put the words in my pen, and today’s news from all sources about the invasion gave the ending lines.
Author and story Performer Joan Leotta is the author of the poetry collection Languid Lusciousness with Lemon. And she is offering her chapbook Gifts of Nature for free at this link.
