TOTSKOIE, 1941

Under the moon’s half-open mouth –

dusky wax figures,

the men, clotted around bonfires.

In spruce arms, ice

and snow, bowing

the steaming tents. Burnt red

ricochet off hand-rolled cigarettes.

Liquid, light,

flaring on tin cups.

 

His hair of golden osier catkins.

The Vistula

rises in his blood,

threatens to roll

against the drum of his chest.

Shirtless,

in 5th Infantry trousers,

newsprint for shoes,

lasted with rubber tire and laced

with frayed cord. In his watch pocket:

Black Madonna, and a thread-tied

tuft of her hair.

A hawkish cold encircles him

when he kneels.

 

Camp near Arkhangelsk,

he passed his twenty-eighth name day.

Herring, silver

in the White Sea.

 

Tonight,

to the eagle-owl’s covert ear:

 

He walks to the fire.

He laughs with the others.

He drinks from the cup,

deeply, tasting the dark.