Prisoners of War

1.

With dashes and squeals, two baby boars,
tan with white stripes, flank the lean soldier,
who leads them to an old woman wearing
a kerchief and holding a wide pail of milk.
They grunt and lap, white drips from their chins,
the larger one nudging the smaller for space.
Even brothers have a ranking, an order,
a territory. We see the soldier’s back,
his camouflage fatigues, heavy boots
covered with mud. He steps
between the pair, making sure
everyone gets enough, leaves full.
He and the farm woman laugh
at something she has said,
perhaps that he is the shoats’ mother. 

2. 

The soldiers speculate
the kit’s mother was killed
by a Russian bomb when
the vixen left the den
looking for food. Taking
turns, they cuddle it in bunting,
hold it to face the camera.
Tiny, russet with a pale chin,
it stares back, eyes dark
and undisturbed. It knows
nothing of Iranian drones,
Abrams tanks, Patriot missiles.
The slender men nestle
the cub against their chests,
smile, clasp it gently, securely.
They promise its mother
they will keep it safe.

July 2024: This poem is loosely based on two real videos, both filmed by Ukrainian soldiers with a GoPro headcam (the words are all mine). My partner and I continue to follow the war, urgently hoping that the United States and European Union will continue to support Ukrainians’ self-defense. Although “Prisoners of War” responds to a particular situation, I hope that it will speak beyond that situation.