Your names toll in my dreams. “26,”
– Rachel Eliza Griffiths
I do not know your names
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
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 –
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:
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.