Mariupol, 2022 - May 21 2022

 

Mariupol, 2022

May 21 2022

The basement

as place of refuge.

All that weight

overhead

may seem unsafe,

but we find reassurance

in concrete walls

and solid earth.

In a killer heatwave

a cool oasis

as hot as it gets.

In a tornado

sheltering from wind;

an ungodly noise

that even muffled by distance

sounds ominously close.

But storms pass quickly,

and twisters

only intermittently touch down.

Bombs, too, randomly fall;

from second to second

the lottery of death

is won or lost.

But the battle goes on,

and the weight

of unpredictability

wears us down;

some snap

some sulk,

others retreat into themselves.

It's dark, dank, musty

in this small enclosed space.

Mice scuttle

and condensation drips

on the cold concrete floor.

The unhealthy smell

can't be helped,

too many bodies

in an unheated basement

with nowhere to bathe.

Until weeks later

we stagger out

to see the world transformed.

Blinking our eyes

in unaccustomed light,

stumbling

on unsteady legs

after so long confined.

Dead bodies

piles of rubble

burned-out cars.

Ruptured pipes, leaking gas.

Pet animals

we had no choice but abandon

scrapping over food

and cowering with fear.

Unexploded bombs

that could go off

with one wrong step.

The survivors

have no way of knowing

which side won.

And does it really matter?

Because when the spoils of war

are immolated cities

and unmarked graves

it's less than zero sum;

there are never any winners

only loss.

Nevertheless, victory will be claimed,

flags raised

anthems sung

and medals hung

around the necks of damaged men.

And someone, somewhere

is getting even richer,

because business is good

and the money better.

After the storm, nature heals.

But the scars of war are permanent.

The city may be rebuilt;

but the people never leave

that small basement refuge,

never find peace

within themselves.