Ukraine’s Animals

I will not leave my pooch behind,
   my buddy for nine years.
You will not leave your kittens, no,
   though the despot’s army nears.

His missiles tear apart the flesh
   of our dear land as fangs
of lions and hyenas rend
   the tissue from—Bang! Bang!

We hear the blasts and feel the blasts
   from our makeshift cellar shelter,
imagining our city’s fauna
   dashing helter-skelter.

We need to flee. They need to flee.
   And what about the zoo—
zebras, elephants, giraffes,
   newborn lemurs, too?

Panicky, they sense the danger
   round their habitation,
their future as uncertain as
   the future of our nation.

The air raid sirens wail and howl
   but our wolves are louder still.
The monkeys need fruit, the tigers meat.
   They must not get a chill.

They’ve murdered zoo staff fetching food
   for famished animals,
and critters have died from thrashing about
   in their cages, cracking their skulls.
   
Our home—is it not our sanctuary,
   a place to feel secure in?
Better than subways, though, where crowds
   now starve and smell the urine.

Another blast! Our pets are panting.
   We must get out and leave them.
We head for the border knowing that
   we shall forever grieve them.