Maria Osburga

I see you. I hold you. And now I put on fuzzy slippers,
Lock my door and brush my teeth.

And ex-boyfriends of former work colleagues
Post yellow and blue flags at the bottom
Of their profiles like Putin might send them
A friend request. They care. They are also
Imagining the terror and don’t know how to make contact.

Of mortar shell strikes on a map.
I read the details like I am holding a Ukranian
Child. Rubbing her back as sirens blare
but instead I stroke the glass
Of a smooth screen– my fingertip barely
Making contact and then Facebook of course.
So much fucking Facebook. Family and acquaintances

“Prepare for body combat” my fitness instructor calls.
I spray three sets of teeth and gums
with a water pic and say goodnight.
I watch Mrs Maisel and refresh the Times--
Russia bombards Kyiv in renewed assault.
I curl into the sofa and trace lines
Of russian advances– the red spiky half suns

and seek and talk to my siblings
about nuclear armament policy. I eat domino's
pizza with banana peppers and chat
with Ellie about anchoring the morning
announcements. I listen to Zelensky in the car.
“I don’t need a ride, I need ammunition”.

Kiss sweet tumbleweed hair and scan
the headlines about men told to stay and fight
With molotov cocktails and six year olds dead
From missiles. I fold the laundry. Tiny girls’ socks
and stretched out beige bras and men's undershirts.
I teach the five year old gin rummy and play hide

To Ukraine from Buffalo
First I put on Sherpa pants, a coat,
and rubber boots to get the mail.
steps onto frozen water that sink to the ground.
soggy morning knees followed by coffee.
A war started 4,700 miles away. I grapple
with the crossword and spelling bee.