Slava Ukraini
After Wallace Stevens, by Randal Stockton
Each dead child
Sends a spirit into heaven
Screaming like a blackbird
Longing to peck out Putin’s weak blue eye
A father is humping broken wood
Into a makeshift fireplace
Keeping the living ones warm
Ready to battle again tomorrow
The broken city is a stockpile
A wealth of broken shattered things
Useful in war and useful in death
Though no one knows when it will come
A ring of men sitting planning
Chanting Clapping Singing
Of obliteration and freedom
And a country of their own
And many children
Are sending their blackbirds
Too many too fast too soon
But not yet enough to kill Putin
It was evening all afternoon
Under the bomb-darkened sky
Hunkered by the dimming coals
They wished for something to eat
Came all night the missiles
Their city shattered even more
No light, no heat, no warmth, no love
There was time only to suffer
It was already snowing again
And it was going to snow
But there were many blackbirds
Collecting in the remaining trees
War is next in glory to enduring love
Though love missing is cause enough
That when morning comes
Men pick up their weapons again
Putin is afraid of death
His fear stalks him we know
Makes him think we are too
But we are not
Our little blackbirds
Will find him soon.
Many upon many of them
Will peck out his weak blue eyes.
Hoping for relief soon to Ukraine!