Kyiv

In Kyiv, we first lived off a street of ice,
in a brick walkup of Khrushchev’s design:
the apartment – small, the neighbors – loud,
the heating and water – often out.

We fed stray cats in the dingy yard,
greeted men smoking by the front door,
trudged to inquire about our frigid radiator
at the housing office-cum-homeless shelter. 

The kiosk-shop was our reliable friend,
selling beer and chips at day’s end,
till the excavator struck it down
and snow overtook its ruined shell.

Two months later, it rose from the dead,
but I never shopped there again.
With time, that frosty street was renamed
in honor of the late Senator McCain.

During the holidays, the boss drove up
to offer my paltry pay off the books:
a tacky gift bag in floral print,
and three types of currency within.

Then snow melted and turned to slush,
revealing dogshit and cigarette butts.
Sprouts appeared, despite the weather.
The old yard awoke, hungover.

Soon I got a job as a newspaper reporter,
and we moved close to the city center.
We bought new coats and better food,
and abruptly life began anew.

I chased leads, interviewed politicians,
reported stories, asked impolite questions.
I found the facts and reached for the truth,
and abruptly I was born anew.

* * *

Four years later, the city is changed: 
A familiar winter encircles us again.
The newspaper suddenly closed its doors,
and gave way to whispers of war.

Across the border, tanks and soldiers muster,
while Kyiv rediscovers its bomb shelters
and presidents of ‘great powers’ meet
in a backroom race against catastrophe.

I’m grateful for the time I spent
in the newsroom, tracing the threads
of politics and international intrigue,
writing copy and narrative ledes.

It helped me escape that frozen street
and granted me a sheen of decency.
It allowed me to lift up my head
and for my wife to call me a man.

But reporting gave me a look behind
the crimson curtain of the official line,
to see the dusty lies and half-truths
hiding in diplomatic platitudes. 

‘Values,’ ‘democracy,’and ‘partnership’ —
these words I now regard as suspect.
In the halls of power, they proudly echo,
on the front lines they ring hollow.

Today, I see that history is built
atop promises that went unfulfilled.
The facades of allies, of ‘civilized nations’
crumble under the least provocation.

Standing in the shadow of war’s destruction,
there is no solidarity with others.
Like the kiosk, like the street’s old name,
Our lives, our memory may be swept away.

Dvir Skotnyj is the pseudonym of a writer who, until recently, lived in Kyiv.