“​​Name, phone, address: The writing on 
a child’s back is now a symbol of 
Ukrainian parents’ terror.” 

The New York Times


We leave so much behind,
especially the mothers
who can only pack
what will fit in the space
that spans between
two shoulder blades. 
Name, phone number, 
address sharpied 
down the spines 
of toddlers, who know 
life in fragments 
of empty rooms 
and suitcases
that can’t quite zip, 
             the bombing had begun. 
My brother’s body 
once disappeared 
into a crowd,
announcements
flying overhead.
Brought to tears, 
I found him at the blue
lost-and-found bin
among other frayed things,
the repeated pleas 
for a button-eyed corduroy bear, 
the chicken coop where we searched 
for rollie-pollies under rocks, 
the plot of land 
for my grandfather 
with no one left 
to tend. 
The mothers 
ink memories into skin–– 
remember who you are, 
they tremble, 
the ripe raspberries
and the bite 
of summer breeze,
            the bombing had begun.