I walk the world with a locked box
Lodged in my chest. Doctor, it hurts
But not as much as it should. In Bucha,
On the roadway of the Street of Apples
A woman lay four weeks straight
Unburied even by snow. They saw her red
Coat and rolled right over, Russians,
Tanked and vigilant in their to and fro.
Doctor, there’s nothing wrong with me
That isn’t also true of many others.
At night I sleep under a vast epiphany
That hasn’t descended upon me,
Pinpricks that shine a white writing
I can’t read. I don’t want to know
Yet. Instead I ask to stay here, greedy
For the smell of autumn. Before
Leaving, I’ve made a miniature of me
To witness the raising of the sea,
To watch over the unimaginable,
To greet this revelation of a future
With those new names it will need.
Copyright © 2025 by Monica Ferrell. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 15, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
