Dawn on the Black Sea
written by: Sam Barbee
Putin re-bombs Ukraine, and I am reminded
of a dark painting by Russian artist Ivan Aivazoysky.
In Night on the Black Sea, as title suggests,
Ivan depicts gray clouds, perhaps at midnight.
A cargo vessel crowns whitecaps. Sails furled.
I imagine a heavy brass bell sounds a muffled toll.
I skim today’s paper at my benign breakfast table,
and desire to meld into the artist’s tableau –
off Crimea,
I am dreaming of our farm and craving eggs
from papa’s Orloff hen. Pour sour milk
for my black cat before she purrs
curling
on my quilt. To sleep, I tally black Romanov sheep
until sunrise tiptoes with remedies to
my seaward sadness.
Ivan’s canvass gauzed with fog and ominous waves,
each brushstroke forges a foaming sea
of false politics
while Loyalists snip value from their nanna’s Vologda lace.
Oligarchs’ cross themselves
with murky grins to cheat
infants. Hard-line leaders in crisp uniforms drench
in perfume to mask terror,
sweeten mercenary’s rampage.
Naps do not dream away crooked edicts chanted to my face.
Ivan’s brushstrokes threaten me: grays devour pastels.
A news release to bandage horror, or soak up child’s blood.
Daub the headline’s hemorrhage. Can tears parch
themselves before sand forms behind my eyes? I pour
black coffee down my unstained kitchen sink and add a shot
of Stoli. I touch up my dream’s canvas and toast
salvation’s moon will soon rise above black water.
- Dawn on the Black Sea - March 31, 2025
