Constellations in Her Bones: Amy’s Poetry and Prose

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UPON THE EVE OF WAR
amyrazeghi.substack.com

UPON THE EVE OF WAR

The Ukraine

Amy Razeghi
Feb 25
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UPON THE EVE OF WAR
amyrazeghi.substack.com

She stumbles barefoot into the small kitchen

as shards of mirror glass

fall from the sky,

a man stands on the cold, grey cement train

platform

waving goodbye to his daughter,

five years new to this world,

We watch in a mix of horror and feast,

Missles fall

as New Yorkers eat pierogi at a

local Ukrainian cafe,

the waitress stands in the back alley

Under the red exit sign,

A clove cigarette in one hand,

Tears at the corners of

her eyes,

I sit praying

over hot coffee for an end to

all war,

all senseless destruction

of a weary world

swimming through

A tsunami of grief,

She calls a friend

and asks,

how can we love more fiercely?

I almost fall to my knees as if

supplication brings peace

knowing the Uranium mines

deep beneath the earth’s soil

is waiting to be mined by

men set on destruction of

democracy as we know it,

the US still so young in

the history of wars,

of breadlines,

of bodies on cargo planes,

of barbed wire

stitching our hearts

together,

What is this human need to own

what is already given?

To colonize the bodies

of women and girls,

to multiply the bank accounts with

blood stained rubbles?

does he seek to nurse his

empty, lonely heart,

to fill himself with stories

of empire,

and palaces of domination?

When will his hunger

be satiated by old stories leaving

us all hungry for warm, fresh,

baked baguette,

a soft pillow,

fresh, clean drinking water,

a safe place to dream,

schools to nourish our children with

new stories,

stories of communities

woven by midwives and makers who

know creating our way through trials

brings joy to us all as

artists build worlds of

safe havens,

where collaborations are as

easy as breath,

where the silence of morning

waits for the first songbird to

sing,

and war is just an ancient memory

on our communal map

Collecting dust,

under glass at the local museum,

Where we recite verse from the

time worn text of our ancestors and

our children dreaming,

ever dreaming of sweet

liberation.

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Jolene
Writes Time Travel Kitchen Feb 25Liked by Amy Razeghi

Powerful and heartbreaking, Amy

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