New York Pitch Conference Reviews, Algonkian Writer Conferences, and Poetry Forums

Rat urine dripping onto
my drying body-armour.
Sergei’s guts spread outside the trench
waiting for the thaw of Spring.
My breath, a ghost joins their spirits.

What honour in toasting
A platoon of Russian sons
The smell of excreta each time
A shell flies by, precursor
To my screams, a whoosh, a rush

Of compressed air, instilling
its mayhem into my dreams.
In taking Kherson, I’m ashamed
of my fetor. Fragrant
Babushkas dust me in holy kisses.

Pretty flower-dresses
girls offer apple-spiced yabluchnyk
They smell of buttermilk
and sun-blessed grass.
I'm showered in sighs
for the brothers they miss.

Good writing.