Often, we would lunch
beside the beach,
even in winter, when waiters
would bring blankets,
perhaps heaters,
to keep us warm.
Pasha, Ania, maybe Katya
or Leslie, and me,
the lunch maybe Black Sea fish
with cherry varenniki for dessert.
Sometimes, we would wade
amidst freezing waves,
foot-pocked sand
behind us.
But that was then.
Today, I wonder what pocks the sand?
Feet? or craters
from last week’s bombs?