On the phone, my starving sister sounds like bruised apples when she tells me the soldiers fed my nephew bullets on Kirova street. We bought sweets there. Do you remember? Do you have sweets in Canada? Did your son die for them? I am in the yard burying his sixteenth birthday next to the sugar beets and I am just moving the grief around. I am running through the western streets, looking for the president to take his shirt, his nephew his sweets, give him my first fighting knuckle. I am swallowing pills and I am just moving the grief around. I look up the Ukrainian word for suicide. Around our sweet shop, the houses are making the most terrible noises. Around me, the blue rubble of clouds blood buildings open. The storks are dropping our children.
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