Chatting with Pasha

We reminisce about AIDS research,
crowds in the Maidan,
ice bags as barricades,
vans crammed with wood and tires,
tires then piled high
to burn,
to warm,
to then spew smoke
to hide people’s bodies
from snipers high above.
A tent of women’s fingers mixed
petrol, oil, pelleted Styrofoam
for bottled cocktails to serve
overhand
for underhanded police to dodge or
burn.

Such was our quiet Sunday brunch
a year after the drama ended
here in Kyiv
while eastwards cities slowly die
in a war the Russians ignited
lest their people rise,
lest revolutions grew to slay
corporations
here, there and beyond.