so much depends
upon
a folded sheet
of foolscap
yellowed at the seams
coffee-ringed
carried thirty-one years
above the heart
inside a small
stitched pocket
in every dress
every blouse
every shirt worn
against the skin
all this time
and Kiki never said
the first poem
he wrote her
orchard rows
roses on wire
baby’s breath
at the roots
bushel baskets
and dusk
a walk that would not end
through alleys
across a sleeping town
her shoes
in his hand
her whisper
in his ear
she told secrets
sideways
because love
sometimes comes easier
when not
face-to-face
when one body
carries another
through the dark
and the whole city
seems made
for two
years later
under Kevlar
under war
under the weight
of medals
and duty
and dawn convoys
the same page
still there
as if his young hand
had only just
pressed it
into hers
via Canada Post
too shy to give in person
so much depends
upon
a woman
who does not go home
who leaves
the basement room
the spare dress
the former life
and walks instead
into trucks bowed
under shells
into roads
already watched
into morning
the axle
straightened
the engines
ran hot
the cliff
came up sudden
heat drew fire
away
and a town
kept breathing
he says
love does not die
hard enough
and he thinks
of acorns
under burned beams
the roofless church
taking rain
small green things
lifting
through ash
he think of her
wearing
his words
above her heart
all her life
as though devotion
needs no witness
as though prayer
is sometimes only
paper
and skin
on Sundays
he turned the bowl
to the seven directions
while across the street
the family came running
prayer mats
under their arms
brown faces
in the prairie light
love meeting love
on the grass
as he prayed to the sky
and they towards Mecca
“there are many paths
to God,”
said the man,
with the golden mouth
“but my favorite
path has always been love.”
and tomorrow
he will keep vigil
through the night
candles
waxing downward
names spoken
into flame
Kimimela.
Angelika.
Amber.
Monika.
Katarzyna.
Aroha.
Mariya.
Jill.
Ihor.
Yakub.
all the beloved dead
not gone
only changed
like weather
like seasons
like apples
ripening unseen
in the dark branches
we are not meant
to understand
the fruit
only to tend
the orchard
to trust
what roots do
in darkness
to believe
that what was planted
in first love
still flowers
somewhere beyond
the tree line
where dawn begins
again
I listed my closest lost heroes names because by listing names, we are doing something ancient and holy.
Names are a kind of fire.
A kind of keeping.
They continue because you continue to carry them.
Tomorrow’s vigil, the candles, the sunrise Mass, with Taliya finally arriving after that odyssey of buses and flights to the closest place with an airport to my hometown, just in time to arrive for her Orthodox Easter vigil, all night in a black-dark church, a special at-dawn Mass, small, special, for veterans of the invasion alone, and the families of those who fought the invaders and paid that ultimate price, the real heros — it already feels like part of some next poem, part of the living continuation of it all, of every poem poets write, it’s a living emotional diary, isn’t it poets?
And this line that my first wife said at lights out, when love making and chit-chat even were done, as her last words until the next morning, that I always found so very beautiful:
Wóphila ečhíčiye, aŋpétu kiŋ lé líla wašté kte.
Gratitude — and may tomorrow be very good.
Yes.
May tomorrow be gentle with you who may read this.
May memory arrive as blessing, not only ache.
May the ghosts come as companions.
May the heroes remain close to you always.
May the dawn carry something of my Kiki especially in its light,
tomorrow the second anniversary of her death in Ukrayina.
And may the orchard keep growing and growing, always and forever…
