by Agnieszka Tworek
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| A Reuters photo shows the building of a theatre destroyed in the course of Ukraine-Russia conflict in the southern port city of Mariupol, Ukraine on April 10, 2022. |
grey butterflies of ashes
rise and fall on Mariupol
after each missile or bomb
is dropped
bridges and roads
to safety are gone,
no way in or out
many can’t pass
the threshold to the other
world because even Death
is overwhelmed in Mariupol
ghosts help wounded
soldiers reload their guns
the lacerated land
bleeds into the sea
shadowed by the enemy fleet
sirens lull children
to sleep and wake them up
what is for breakfast?
a spoonful of air
what’s to drink?
a cup of rain
what is a house?
fire and smoke
what is a school?
a gaping hole
what are the walls?
your mother’s arms
the city landmarks endure
on maps stored
in survivors’ hearts
grey butterflies of ashes
rise and fall on Mariupol
at dawn, noon, and dusk
a woman covered in dust
presses her hands on the ground,
as if trying to resuscitate
her hometown
wailing and blood
are spilling out
from the underground
does anybody know?
everyone knows
does anybody come?
nobody comes
except for bullets, rockets,
and bombs.
Agnieszka Tworek was born and raised in Poland. Her poems have been published in Ploughshares, The Sun, Best American Poetry, The Southern Review, Rattle (Poets Respond), and in other journals. She lives on Staten Island.