Cocktail Hour in Kyiv

Arina’s dextrous fingers, so adept

at teaching children to read and write,

nimbly grate polystyrene in the park.

The thickening agent is added to pungent petrol,

while a psychologist tears rags for wicks, screws the lid tightly,

settles it gently by a thousand deadly Molotov cocktails.

White crumbs blow and settle on their winter-pale skin, blonde hair, warm clothes.

Last week, they sipped honey-spiced vodka Varenukha in Kyiv’s Paravoz Speakeasy,

ate half-moon-shaped potato and sour cream Varenyky dumplings.

Now, it's bottle bombs and tea with mothers and grandmothers trying

to chat away molten terror beneath bare spring trees and insipid sun

crouched in snowy grass; the scent of lemons, oranges and coke clings to glass.

Later, they’ll hide, hungry, in cold, cramped basements, awaiting

the liquefying crump of bombs and scattered gunfire,

as Putin’s deadly apparitions consume their dark nights.