I

I think the usual things:
a little reverie before
I check to see how long
the ham will need to reach 140 degrees;
whether I can put the scalloped potatoes
in with the ham;
whether, this time, the string beans
will for once be perfect
as my mother’s always were.

In Mariupol, Ivan Kovalenkov steps
from his ruined home
into his Easter morning and prays
harder than he ever has.
He wonders what to think
without his wife whom
he hasn’t found yet.
He does not think of dinner--
why should he since he’s
had none for countless days.
He expects his death
but not a resurrection.

Prayers are offered around the world,
and God, up to His usual tricks,
feigns not listening.
Ivan believes just as he always has.
He also believes he’ll be shot,
suddenly, for no reason.
There is nothing he can do about it.

I will take my seat at the table,
my wife will say grace
and ask God to bless Ukraine.
The ham will be fine,
the potatoes not warm enough,
the beans, so-so.
Ivan, looking for his wife,
will not find her.

II

Stepping out on Easter morning, Ivan
prays openly to God for relief
from the war closing in on him,
so near that a bullet knows his
name and blood type.
In the ruins of his home
he prays, believes;
searches for his wife,
and prays, believes.
Maybe it’s the only thing
left to do. Maybe he’s
so destroyed that he too
is reduced to rubble,
to falling back into the
childhood rituals of Sunday school,
unable to say anything except,
“Our Father Who art…”

If God has the sense,
is brighter than any man,
then He will place in the ruins
where Ivan toils--
beneath a fractured brick,
under a smashed hope chest--
at least one tiny chrysalis,
a baffling womb in which
a ferocious butterfly
pulses to be born.

III

As Ivan Kovalenkov’s death approaches
he is silent and lets the air speak.
He hasn’t found his wife
but will join her momentarily,
or so he believes.
He’s not quite sure
what he wishes for here,
on the edge of light,
finds darkness perhaps a better choice.
He thins, grows smaller.
Distant sirens hope elsewhere
to find the living buried
in the smolder and dust.
They’ve given up on this neighborhood--
it’s been too long now.
Ivan picks his slow way through
all the wreckage he has searched before,
feels belief diminish into hope.
An abandoned cat follows him, then turns away.
He finds half a cigarette, picks it up,
aims to light it when he finds a small flame.
A sudden blast ruptures his ears.
All light disappears in a flash.
Even Ivan Kovalenkov’s final prayer
is ripped from the stinging air.

IV

There is no one left
to bury Ivan with his name.
He has become anonymous,
just ashes and dust.
If enough bones and teeth
remain tendoned together
there will be a bag
and a burial to the tune of
a tractor and backhoe.
If not, he’ll be plowed
into the next generation
with his wife and neighbors.

For most of his days
Ivan saw a different end,
saw the standard decay,
a long and fatal life
concluding with pallbearers and grief.
He wanted to die in spring
when everything is being born.

But that turned out to be
only what he thought he saw.
He also thought he saw
his sad wife holding his hand as he faded.

What they saw, dreamed,
incinerates, and the only hope
is that their faithful ashes mingle
in the glint of the bulldozer's steel blade.