Your names toll in my dreams. “26,”
– Rachel Eliza Griffiths
I do not know your names
your faces.
The photograph shows you
beside the war monument
reminding me that time has circled back upon itself
how tanks have driven
out of our grandfathers’ memories.
I do not know your names.
The newspaper tells more than I can see
of your clothing
snug backpacks
the girl in little moon boots
and your dog in a green carrier
green like grass
green like go
green like life.
You’d dashed a hundred yards
leaving the bridge debris –
shells zeroing.
I do not know the names of the hundreds
crossing the Irpin River
like Tennyson crossing the bar
the last crossing
leaving behind your bodies and your names:
anonymous
perpetual.
Stan Galloway writes from the hills of West Virginia. He is the founder of Pier-Glass Poetry as well as the author/editor of 9 collections of poetry. He has taught writing and literature for more than 40 years.