Shoes in Bucha
In my first shoes I toddled
grasping for stability -
A finger, a chair, a table leg.
I hung on to things, to people.
I had shoes, little white shoes.
When I took off my shoes,
the bees in the clover
stung my feet and I cried.
My dad taught me.
There are worse things than having no shoes.
“I wept because I had no shoes
until I met a child who had no feet.”, he said.
I’ve lived 80 years now
and shoes mean I can leave the house.
Weak painful wrists mean
I can’t put on my socks and shoes;
I can’t hold my walking stick
Then I stay home until the pain subsides.
While I was home with my wrist in a brace,
I watched a young Ukrainian girl.
She looked like me at her age.
Blue eyes light brown hair.
I thought, “I could be you.”
I saw her heart breaking. It was the shoes.
The shoes on the feet of the girl
she lay dead in the street in Bucha,
Her hands with red nail polish,
devoid of water turning to leather.
Her body half naked, raped, stabbed, shot.
The young Ukrainian girl spoke “Her feet, her shoes,
they are the same as my feet, my shoes
I walked on the street where she lived”.
Before the boys from Mother Russia came and left in defeat,
“My boy friend and I often went to Bucha on the weekends.
It was a pleasant place, with a beautiful park.
We were middle class like the people of Bucha. They were us.
She could have been me.”
As I drove to town
for medicine for Miles, our little black dog.
I remembered the dogs in Bucha
loved and carried by the people
fleeing from the horror of genocide.
I saw the old, wrinkled women,
Holding onto the arms
of Ukrainian boys in camouflage wear.
For stability. They are me; I am them.
I am beyond sorrow;
I am here for justice.
I await the tribunal,
That will try and convict the war criminals
who tore the heart out of a country
far away from here finally bring justice.
And I have neighbors, you know
duped by a hateful movement.
Enflamed by a failed coup
They say they will do the same to us
in hate and fear. We are Ukraine.