The Black Cat from Bakhmut

Dream of me when you sleep on your blanket.
These humans know how to manage city streets
disrupting life with bombs and artillery shells,

splattering cats and children into every corner.
I wait for night, lightless and frozen
when I roam unseen among the corpses

looking for a body to curl up to for comfort.
But the dead lie speechless without a purr
waiting for dawn to be found in a litter box

for burial before ruthless armies bury Bakhmut
with fire power droning through the sky
with a lie that makes language obsolete. 

Kemmer Anderson walks his dog along the Trail of Tears in Chattanooga, Tennessee and has walked the streets of East Jerusalem in 1971, '83, 98, and 2015. Read other articles by Kemmer.