For the Ukrainian family killed by Russian mortar on a bridge in Irpin
Their bodies, commas—
Crossing the sentence of war,
Curved toward each other,
As though the asphalt
Were a Sunday morning bed—
Daughter, son, mother, the man
We took for a father,
A volunteer of Mercy
Gathered among headlines.
Even the little dog’s mad barks
The exclamation a domestic note—
Among the mortar rounds,
And the man’s fading pulse
War’s antiphon, canticle of kin.
