Battlefields dot my maps,
I have forgotten the grammar to locate
my home, only fields frozen
in thick blood
endlessly stretch in front of me;
my skin has become a canvas of wounds
each scar drawn, painted, carefully, over time,
by a fascist King. Red. Crimson.
Black-dried rose petals. Except blue.
Horses gallop brewing dust from the fields,
clouds of dust rise up towards the topaz sky,
long lost sunlight rots on my skin – in Kyiv
lovers hold between their lips the last promise
Dawn, like meaning, slips away – constantly.
I cling to the words you once doodled on my skin,
your scalpel had dug too deep in some places,
refreshingly, had reopened apertures of pain:
stored, accumulated from before birth,
spilling over, aching across countless after-lives.
Memories of passionate moon-leaked nights
are weaved under my skin – covered in blood;
nights we have spent kissing each other,
before detonating the enemy mines,
before firing at one another, mercilessly.
We have always made love in turbulent times,
lying across the no-man’s land,
a multitude of borders zigzagging over us,
our skin flayed, dried, stitched to design atlases,
a thousand ships sailing over our blood
to lay siege on Ilium,
– Achilles, we are destined to die.