"Two Natashas, One Babushka, Two Cats" by Laura Grevel
Two Natashas, One Babushka, Two Cats
I hold this day close
as two Natashas arrive,
one babushka, two cats.
We smell them first—
the cold cold dread.
Kharkiv has come with them.
Its dust rising like incense
from their bodies.
Our neighbors from Poland
say a babushka lived
in their mountains at home.
Hearing that her sister died just
before the first attack,
that babushka bought a ticket,
tightened her kerchief,
got on the empty bus,
headed back so she too
could die in Ukraine.
Two Natashas, one babushka, two cats
play a song of giggle and weep.
They love the leafless trees:
no fever or fatigue
stops them taking pictures,
sending back news
of unwalked snow.
They do not blink
at our wary faces.
Living faces are always beautiful
for tomorrow the war is over.
They’ll drive back;
their car waits
still stuffed with dry goods, blankets, chaos
for the return home.
Where Natasha’s flowering garden waits
bursting with color,
busting with days gone by,
bursting with unsung heroes.
Where is your son, Natasha?
Dancing the streets of Kharkiv
feet prancing over shells
fired by reluctant boys
whose teeth chatter
a jazz pattern that longs
to bite the bullet
at the end of the barrel,
spray teeth out to outer space
where the first cosmonaut
waits to gather
comrades unlucky in love.
Where is your daughter, Natasha?
Gathering teeth in your garden,
the teeth of her love,
planting these to seed a new Kharkiv.
Where is your sister, Babushka?
Waiting at the funeral byre,
spreading her baked tesserae bones
across the walls in a ravishing
concoction of mosaic mummery.
Where is your husband, Natasha?
Holding his father close
where the tunnels beneath the war
breathe in and out,
the cats and dogs chant,
for tomorrow the war is over.
Two Natashas, one babushka, two cats
will drive home in the car
that carefully hugs the tightly-packed goods,
the blankets, and the cold cold dread,
to find the precious glittery thing
that cannot be destroyed.
The one possession that is intact—
see it lying in the grimy street—
the rucksack of hope,
holding its arms out
in naked supplication.
Laura Grevel
Laura Grevel is a performance poet, fiction writer, and blogger. She has performed her poetry in Texas and Europe. Her work is eclectic, tackling the immigrant experience, narratives, character sketches, and even grackle squawks. She has been published in Hear Her Speak, Unlatched Podcast, Poetry and Covid, Fevers of the Mind, WORD!, Poets Against Racism USA, Poetry and Settled Status For All, OpenDoor Magazine, DIY Poetry Zine, Dreich, and her YouTube channel. Her performances have been included in festivals, including Edinburgh Fringe Online, Cresswell Crags, Punk 4 The Homeless, Hotchpotch/Dundee, Nottingham and Derby.
Headshot: Joachim Grevel
Photo Credit: Staff