Poems

Two Hearts

Petersburg, eater of Mariupol, where are your speakers of Greek.

Where is the poet Georgis Kostoprav. Where are the schoolteachers.

Where are the proofreaders of Kolekhtivistis, who bravely fought the deriders of dialect, the proofreaders of Kommunistis.

Where are the actresses of the Greek Theater, who led country audiences in Ukrainian and Greek sing-alongs to bolster the friendship of peoples.

Where is the collective farmer Popov, who translated Gogol’s Inspector-General in the shadow of his tractor for the benefit of fellow collective farmers.

Is he contributing to the humus-rich soil with the rest of them, their skulls smashed by bullets entering from the back, their hands tied.

Are your hands tied, Petersburg.

You have smashed the dome of the Greek Church on one of your Soviet streets with a demolition ball entering from the back, and blocks of masonry collapsed on people seeking safety.

Get glasses, cultural capital, you cannot read the word children.

You have bombed a maternity ward to make a clearing for a concert hall, since the concert hall is the temple of art and art demands sacrifices.

In your own immortal work of art, a dog recognizes a park, though the trees have been gouged out, and the place where they rustled covered over with asphalt.

Still the dog lifts its leg in the air, because it is still free to do so, since its legs are still untied, its skull is still intact, its mouth is yet to turn to rot in order that it contribute to culture.

So it can still tell what lies under the parking lot, Petersburg. You have eaten your brother or rather, as you put it, your sister.

What have you done with the speakers of Ukrainian. What have you done with the speakers of Russian.

17 December 2022

...