Their picture was on the front page of the New York Times
A loose pile of bodies on pavement.
The eight year old daughter looked like she was taking a nap
Perhaps dreaming of the little dog the article said still barked from a backpack
A blond-haired son curled next to
the mother, her eyes closed, face smeared with blood.
Only the father's heart still beat after the mortar hit
as they ran to cross a mangled bridge.
I saw the picture from a safe distance from the fighting
Couldn't hear the artillery
Or rockets.
But there was still an impact
Wondering what words I could tell my daughter
28, not eight.
What I could say to justify faith in humanity
When a family dies on a Ukraine street.

Patrick Carr