Trupie Pole, this Field of Death

is called in the old Slavic tongue,

shares its grief with the ruins

of the Catholic Church,

its relics long since relocated

to the hollowed knots of oaks

that populate a crooked forest.

Stick scarecrows, their bag heads

floating phantoms, protect the border.

Even the trees grow stunted where

the ground was soaked with blood,

limbs swaying towards each other

like separated twins begging

uselessly for reunion.

Each blasted vein and half leaf

still echoes with the shriek,

the soil still leaks rust when trod,

memories of false sanguine

still glisten on overcast mornings,

and the howl of fog never dissipates,

while rumors of griffon vultures

returning from the dead

to paw for a taste of the catacombs

below are abundant as gnats.

In a wooden wagon the grandchildren

of blood huddle in desperate acts

of remembrance and procreation

ignoring the old woman with a babushka,

and somber dress fertilizing the field

with  tears for the thousandth time

for the sleeping twin under her boots.

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