Within the darkness
that presses its nose
against the window
a baby screams
and screams
her father humming
desperate sursuration
Not mine. Not now
Not today.
Lights out. Bedtime
On distant lit pathways
a stroller appears. Disappears.
I’m scared to go to the army,” my son says.
What if I don’t like the food?
And also--I might get killed.
Crouch in a ditch. Pray.
So many promises I want to make.
But nothing to say.
I tell him of the Davidka,
the canon that couldn’t aim
but saved the city with its roar
The siren shriek
haunts the night
but my children have learned
to barely flich.
Today my son has an earthquake drill;
last night, a missile.
Saferoroms sprout like mushrooms
before the rains.
Two helicopters circle
locuslike overhead.
encircled in the angry
howl of aircraft.
I will have mercy
on whom I have mercy
And grace
on whom I have grace.
Yet how we long to lock
salvation in a box
to shoot at will
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