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.