AMBER - CRACKLING

Few days before the war begins,
I take photos of my room:
Books, flowers, and trinkets on shelves,
And family pictures,
All entangled in the cobweb of late-winter sunbeams.
Dust, petals, and ants trapped in warm yellow amber.

The day the war begins —
And it’s not a metaphorical war —
We go buy cat food, instant noodles, hydrogen peroxide.
What else do you need when the world begins to crackle,
But still remains in one piece?

I read the same book I was reading yesterday —
It’d suck to be killed in my sleep and not know the ending.
We are scrolling through news and trying to predict
What reality and country we will wake to tomorrow,
But I’m not Cassandra, and my city is luckily no Troy.

We go to the coffee shop where we go every day.
Gleaming brass, the familiar hissing of the espresso machine,
Bandages and crutches ready to go for the front line.

I lock my door and go to the railway station with a backpack
And a carrier with my half-fainted cat.
The backpack holds the same book I’m still struggling to finish.

While we’re waiting for the train,
Riding out the air alert in a subway below,
Everybody is silent. Inside every head in the crowd,
Someone tries to break out of their own warm cocoon
And to move if they want to survive.

Later, sleeping on the train floor
To the faraway sound of explosions,
I dream of infinite pieces of amber
Crushed under bulldozer tracks.
Ancient ants are exposed to air
Of the time and place they could never think of.

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Alice D, 32, Ukraine ✯