I do not mention the war in my birthplace to my six-year-old son but somehow his body knows
My face in his hands
before bed, he asks, if I cut you
in half, will you be even?
I am silent. Expecting
mothers in Mariupol are cut
by invisible hands. Children
cut off from water. Because you have
two eyes + two ears + two cheeks
+ so much hair + your mouth
can have two halves
so you would be even, right?
He wants simple math.
Breath that outlasts
violence. You ÷ 2 =
2 even yous. He isn’t asking
anymore. He is making me
monument. You would still be
if I cut you in half. Small hands
demand a splitting. If you
cut me in half, I tell him,
I’d be dead.
Source: Poetry (September 2022)