Call from Cherkasy
by Mariya Yasinovska
My grandparents just called
the eerie hum of a generator behind their voices,
the radio giving updates.
The radio is always on, loud.
The last time they called, they hung up
because the sirens were sounding
They had just gotten back from sheltering
Planes whirr overhead.
They have memorized these sounds,
the differences between
enemy and friend,
us and them.
Between our army’s jets
And the cold whoosh of Russian planes
Their hair looks grayer each time I see them
Two decades is longer than I’ve been alive,
they've lived in the same apartment,
with the same dark green velvet couch
the yellowing rose wallpaper
the same old television
on which I watched cartoons
Ice cream smeared on my cheeks
My hair still wet from the sea
I don't watch cartoons anymore
But I do watch the news,
and the bright animation has given way to
red, so much red, and gray
Blood and bombs and
broken cities, attacked hospitals,
Mass graves
I used to hear my grandparents laugh
Now I hear the radio
by Mariya Yasinovska
My grandparents just called
the eerie hum of a generator behind their voices,
the radio giving updates.
The radio is always on, loud.
The last time they called, they hung up
because the sirens were sounding
They had just gotten back from sheltering
Planes whirr overhead.
They have memorized these sounds,
the differences between
enemy and friend,
us and them.
Between our army’s jets
And the cold whoosh of Russian planes
Their hair looks grayer each time I see them
Two decades is longer than I’ve been alive,
they've lived in the same apartment,
with the same dark green velvet couch
the yellowing rose wallpaper
the same old television
on which I watched cartoons
Ice cream smeared on my cheeks
My hair still wet from the sea
I don't watch cartoons anymore
But I do watch the news,
and the bright animation has given way to
red, so much red, and gray
Blood and bombs and
broken cities, attacked hospitals,
Mass graves
I used to hear my grandparents laugh
Now I hear the radio