I Don't Know How to Write About War

 

CNN screen shot
from the bombing of a maternity hospital

I don't know how to write about war,
or, more accurately, about having hope
for humankind in the midst of war,
until I see the kind helpers, coming 
from everywhere, hands stretched out, 
to help, to heal, to hug, to hand out
hot drinks and food (the small boy
smiling as he is handed a bag of fries).

I don't know how to write about war,
young women in labour being carried out
of a bombed maternity hospital - surely
the most helpless and vulnerable situation 
one can imagine. (What kind of reptilian
consciousness does it take to bomb
civilians, schools, hospitals,
apartment buildings? What kind 
of soldier is cold-hearted enough
to gun down families in the street -
mothers, fathers, carrying babies
and dogs, helping frail elderly on walkers,
as they run - or hobble - for their lives?)

I don't know how to write about war
when we safe countries sit back
on our soft couches sipping tea,
watching the massacre of a people,
out of fear of the monster's wrath?
He is already monstering.
This will only get worse.
Eventually we will be drawn in,
whether we want it or not. 
How many Ukrainians will be left?

I don't know how to write about war,
but if you are brave enough to live it,
I will be brave enough to bear witness,
to pen my grief and horror into a poem,
to fly it on its wings to your side
in hopes it brings you comfort to know
that, on the other side of the world,
we are thinking of you,
crying for you, praying for you,
and for this war
that only one madman wants
to soon be over.

I have heard reports that some of the Russian soldiers have said they don't want this war but if they turn their tanks around and go back they will be imprisoned. (More likely shot.) Were I in their shoes, I would choose becoming a prisoner of war, where they will be treated more kindly than in their own country, where people who even use the word "war" can be imprisoned for fifteen years.