Rocket Time

Sometimes the screenshots appear blurred,
the winter fogging camera lenses in Ukraine,
details not fine enough for telescopic videos.
But it’s true, I know, everything blurs
when the rockets fall.

Easier than for human eyes to endure
the focused truth, the unmasked anguish,
the goddamned fear and oh my, the anger,
the rage and the all-alone-ness you feel
when the rockets fall.

Where do you go when you’re the bullseye
and the target is also your land and your people?
Where do you go when the towers tumble
and the trees burn and the park
is no longer a haven when the rockets fall?

I held my breath, urged my own swift death
after the loudness became bright white
and the buildings exploded, and cannons boomed,
for decades pounding my ears and my psyche
after the rockets fell.

You stumble on, memories and dreams jammed in a vinyl suitcase
with tiny wheels caught in the twisted rebar,
the crumbling concrete, the persistent smell
of the smoldering ruin and the nervous sweat
When the rockets fell and fall again.

The flight from war wearies everyone and still
we rush on, from homes to shelters if there
are any but for now with a tiny hope for
future and for peace far beyond
where the rockets fall.