This evening I read about Russian soldiers crying when they were captured. The report was meant to be derogatory, and I guess if I were reporting on armies and making comparisons against the US professional army, etc., I might find it so, but what it did was remind me that these Russian soldiers are not volunteers as is the case in the US and other countries. They are forced to serve unless they can get out of it. And most of them are just kids doing and being what they’d rather not do or be. So, this following piece was written with that in mind. I very much want for a miracle to occur in Ukraine. My thoughts are with these people who are fighting heart and soul for their freedom, may they succeed. But as a writer and human being, I had to look at the other side and wonder and imagine.

My Son, The Poet

You hear of a Russian soldier crying and think:
my son, the poet
he wouldn’t be serving if not for your husband
may he rest in peace or hell
for that’s what he’s brought you,
time and time again with his dissidence then
death from poison administered somewhere
in England when he opposed
Yes, horror rules Russia
Horror has ruled Russia for a very long time
But your son, your poet, the boy of words
words that light night and make horror livable
does he live still somewhere in Ukraine?
You’ve forsaken coffee for vodka, 
laugh dryly when you hear westerners remove it from their shelves
because there is so very much you’d love to remove from yours

including the reason your son shackled with abhorrent weapons
stands in the land your sister fled to, to be free 
but your son, your dearest light in a world of dark,
may he live through this hell neither of you reckoned, welcomed.
Dear son, what I would give for you to live another day.

end