Red Raspberries in Ukraine

Ukraine, summer 1993, on a mission trip 

Red Raspberries in Ukraine
 
We walk the streets of Borispol and Kiev in 1993,
climb dingy high-rise apartments, find no hot
water or toilet seats—search empty shelves
in grocery stores for soap
to wash dishes, clothes, and floors. 
 
We seek respite from roaches
for our mission team, American teens
eager to share the good news of the Gospel
with those who lost their land and means
to the Communist Manifesto. 
 
We sense the cost of collectivism,
vacant streets a camouflage
to dens where Ukrainian
and Russian mafia plot to rape
the country’s remaining riches.
 
We sing to Ukraine’s children,
hear men speak of decapitating and toppling
Lenin’s statue, and wonder what took
them so long, marvel at their endurance
to suffer bondage and starvation.

​We befriend a band of women,
cooks who serve us bowls
of Cream of Wheat with red raspberries
fifteen mornings
on white tablecloths.
 
I pray their smiles, sons and daughters, thrive,
wish to compensate their kindness, seat
them around my family table, place bowls
of Cream of Wheat with red raspberries before
them, share our will to work with those who will.