West of Volgograd, as you cross the bridge
and come to Soldier's Field and Mila's statue
and the letter from her father written on stone,
you know you have come to a poem.

The letter may be a bit too sentimental-
plucking the flower before it is trampled by the Germans-
a bit too heroic: 'I'll shed each drop of blood...',
but it is true, and truth redeems everything.
The mass-grave right there at the memorial
may appear too brutal, but it happened that way.
Those who fought together lie huddled together.
The dead tree planted there, if planted is the word,
may be a bit too pat.
But there isn't a better memorial
to a battle than an unleafing tree.

The sculpture may be an overstatement
made from shell-metal, tank-tracks
and rust, the only thing that flowers after battle,
but it bears the mark
and tangential thrust of reality.
They dug out the shrapnel and defused the mines.

And they cast seed
after digging death from out the earth.
I saw the shoots six inches high
in mid September.
Once the snow-shroud lifts in spring
like the ice of '42 and '43
the shoots will ripen to wheat.

This field is a poem.
You don't need anyone to write it.