War

                     How many deaths must it take to be considered a war?
                             — 1,000 lives, Google

But the first 100 are only fooling.
They’ve saved their caboodles from drama class.
Death makeup is a breeze.

They clear their throats, step into the spotlight, center stage.

A mother applauds.
Outside, moonlight carves its solid world.

                                           * * *

The second 100 are children again.

They run through fields of daisies,
fingers interlocked, index fingers pointing.

Ra-ta-tat-tat!

We’re safe!

Migrative imagination,
pretend machine guns

execute a pact.

                                           * * *

The third 100 drag their feet, lost,
heavy with song.

Song is healthy for the soul.
But who will listen?

Fearful neighbors
slam their doors shut.

Surely you understand, they whisper.

                                           * * *

The fourth 100 never vacate their apartments.

They’re still there
lying quiet in their beds,

their bodies packed with prayers.

A concrete city block disintegrates
between earth and air.

                                           * * *

The fifth 100 simply refuse to die

until they find their daughters’
favorite stuffed bear,

the one with the black button, blind eyes

that keeps her safe at night.

                                          * * *

The sixth 100 press their ears to a hollow wall.

Who is shouting in the dark?
Not everyone who hears voices is unwell.

                                           * * *

A plastic View-Master, a last luxury to be held
in their son’s hands,

the seventh 100 cry a creek—a stream—a river

                                           * * *

The eighth 100

don’t remember first words,
don’t hear last screams—

           their mouths open like that of a toddler
                        gasping for air.

                                           * * *

A living heart!

           Here!

The ninth 100 believe they are still
warm inside,

the way a burning forest believes
it’s a perfect metaphor for the spiritual world

even after it’s ash.

                                           * * *

999
…are missing one
           who got away.

Praise be!

Newton’s Cradle

                        —Fourth of July

1.

A crazy good time for everyone drinking
and blowing themselves up,

for the guns, bells, and the bonfires, 
and for the flames hurled towards the tops of buildings. 

But not for our dog, Petroushka, 
swaddled in an old nightgown, shaking.

Not for my mother anxiously rocking her,
pillows propping her up in bed.

Not for silence
beating with an animal heart, the synchronized

clockwork held within a small rib cage, 
short-haired fur—as soft, she used to say, 

as a velvet glove lost behind 
an opera house seat

or dropped in the snow searching for a key. 
A luxury one couldn’t count on.

2.

Not for the sky backfiring into showering
white spiders, the dog’s pupils   

darkening into small black umbrellas.
Not for bad luck getting personal in July 1942.

Not for the unwanted child aborted on a kitchen table.
Who would take care of it–

An unborn brother 
or sister blocking Mother’s ears 

with ghostly small fingers. 
Not for birds that lie scattered lifeless on the ground

or for the disoriented bees that won’t go back to their hives.  
Stars & Stripes Forever rushing to its end.  

3.

Not for her waving me away:  Leave me alone.  
Or calling me back:  Stay if you understand.

I wish I’d stayed. I kissed 
the top of her head and left.

Some skies are impermeable to fire.  
Some fires die as red skies.

Like silver slingshot balls, the collisions
would resound forever.

Back in the U.S.S.R

                        —Lennon-McCartney

1.

We were never the Beach Boys’ California girls, 
Weren’t the cutest in the world, no French bikinis 
cut to fit our McDonald’s and Coca-cola 
bodies. We bit eyes and a mouth into bologna 
slices, lay the cool-skin happy faces 
against our own, sprayed Sun-In on 

our ash blond hair until it streaked bright
yellow—free, almost graffitied—a signature
look, like dog piss in snow. Once, I surfed
Lake Erie to my sister’s cheers, stood up 
on a rental board, balancing for a minute, 
the tiny wave beneath me lifting and curling

just long enough to make it count—though 
I’m not sure what for. O Maria, Chris, Nuni, Natalie—
even our theme park tissue Flower Power 
blooms held seductively against our hips, O
steamy dance halls in the dark never
sparked a glance from any boy. 

2.

We swore we’d end up marrying each other, 
exchange vows with dyed good luck
rabbit’s feet, key chains for keys we’d most 
likely never own, doors that opened
to beauty queens who waved from county 
fair floats pulled by tractors.  

Then Paul McCartney sang it:  
The Ukraine girls really knock me out!
What?  They leave the West behind. 
Really? Back in the USSR. The USSR.
Our popularity was sealed.
We began waiting by our phones.

3.

We didn’t appreciate irony back then—
Come and keep your comrades warm
My father’s heated “Over my dead body!”
Let me hear your balalaika’s ringing out!
“No patriotic Ukrainian plays
a Russian balalaika!”

But the Ukraine girls knocked somebody out—
Soon we, too, would be called to ecstasy’s 
snow-peaked mountains. 
Honey, disconnect the phones.
How exciting, at night, to rub bright 
purple fur against our faces,

gently press to our lips
the tips of crescent nails.
We wallowed in the luck we believed 
they’d continue to bring—
Useless Sad Saturated Relics
dangling from small chains.

Our Dolls Were Naked

Our dolls were naked, but our cats stayed
partly clothed—a ribbon here, a brown felt hat there,
two holes cut and fitted for their ears.

My sister and I wanted them pretty 
for when the priest came to dinner. 
They’d mew in the hallway, plunk heavy 

onto their sides. We waited for the priest
to remove his hat, smile, extend his cool hand
to touch our faces in approval

like Christ to his believers. Instead
he murmured that we were cruel, 
headed straight for hell.

My sister’s baby doll was large, shiny, round-faced.
Mine was narrow, loose-limbed, rubbery.
It peed rust when I squeezed its belly. 

The cats clawed, scratched, refused to be babies.
Like all bad mothers, we grew sharper teeth,
longer noses and learned how to change

the color of our eyes. Frightened of us,
our dolls suffered from stomach aches,
lay prone on the brick walkway

until we took them to the faceless doctor
who administered lilac water jabs
to the soles of their feet.

Shushing them, we brushed invisible 
strands of hair from their faces.
The cats rarely got sick.  

Lifting them by the armpits, 
we reassured them they had enough heft
to eclipse the sun—                              

The cats celebrated nine lives.
We worried that they’d stop needing us.
And how we missed hugging our dolls!

But the dolls, too, wanted no part of us—
playing hide-and-seek in every darkened room 
we couldn’t even imagine.