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Sunday Morning Bed

For the Ukrainian Family Killed by Russian Mortar on a Bridge in Irpin

Their bodies, commas—

Crossing the sentence of war,

Curved toward each other,

As though the asphalt

Were a Sunday morning bed—

Daughter, son, mother, the man

We took for a father,

A volunteer of Mercy

Gathered among headlines.

Even the little dog’s mad barks

The exclamation a domestic note—

Among the mortar rounds,

And the man’s fading pulse

War’s antiphon, canticle of kin.

Written by

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