Sunday Morning Mattress | America Journal

For the Ukrainian household killed by Russian mortar on a bridge in Irpin

Their our bodies, commas—

Crossing the sentence of battle,

Curved towards one another,

As if the asphalt

Had been a Sunday morning mattress—

Daughter, son, mom, the person

We took for a father,

A volunteer of Mercy

Gathered amongst headlines.

Even the little canine’s mad barks

The exclamation a home word—

Among the many mortar rounds,

And the person’s fading pulse

Battle’s antiphon, canticle of kin.