Odesa (Or: I Would Love to be Blown Up by Someone from a Larger Neighboring Country)

I would love to be blown up by someone from
a larger neighboring country.

I would love forever to be hushed by some
well-meaning Cossack
or stormtrooper
or bot behind a cannon,

Some generalissimo proud of brow and epaulette,

Some hero.

Oh, how my children and I, surprised in our flannels of a cool Sunday dawn,
would glitter in the fire.

How I would revel
in my final shudder and swoon,
that twisted jeté of love
only a mother can execute
without artifice.

How I would listen to the brave whistle
of maniacal falcons
dispatched from far steel nests!
How glorious they would render the sky,
and how I would wonder!
Upon whose rooftop will they alight today
with their kind talons?
Will it be mine?

And though it would be morning,
gauzy and gowned,
how my prayers,
like dead shells,
would thud
without echo
into the church of night.