I try to peel the scotch tape from the windowpane—
so stubborn I can’t claw it off
I stop by the nearest supermarket
for sponges and cleaning gloves
throw in some steel wool
for good measure
at the shelf of hair products
I grab a hairbrush, marked
“Made in Kharkiv”
this one ought to last awhile
as “Kharkiv” means “enduring”
some might say: “eternal”
I have more hairbrushes
than I have hair
yet “Made in Kharkiv” convinces me
it’s not just a brush, but tenderness itself
that is made, that rises within me
like a wave, flooding my body
and where do they make this tenderness
as the war rages on around them?
in the metro? in the bomb shelter?
in a factory?
I walk down the aisle
grab some orange juice from Mykolaiv
tomato paste—the last jar—from Kherson
yogurt from Kremenchuk
but the salt from Bakhmut is still missing
and none has come in from Soledar
we’ll get it back!—the clerk assures me
as if she knows all about geopolitics
doesn’t let me ask another question
then disappears behind a row of ketchup
When I’m done finally cleaning the windows
the radio broadcast
floods all the rooms
rises up to the glassy surfaces
nearly translucent—
tenderness rushing
all the way from the town of the White-White Church
where a missile has been shot down
as it hurtled from the Black-Black Sea
straight at us
where the windowpanes
are no longer secured by Scotch tape
where the window frames
are not barricaded with books
where the windows
are open to the light
and the blast waves
so tonight I will brush my hair with tenderness
tomorrow I’ll have tenderness for breakfast
in the evening I’ll make some tenderness dressing
and if they free the loose tenderness from the occupation
I’ll go ahead and sprinkle it all over
victory is best well-seasoned
never have I known a tenderness so sharp
never at all
but I’ll give it a shot, I promise
June 19, 2022, Kyiv
© 2022 by Lyuba Yakimchuk. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2022 by Oksana Maksymchuk. All rights reserved.
