Kalyna's Purgatory

Kalyna—

named for a berry red enough to fool the crows.

She says she fled Odesa the day the bombs began.

Says her brother died in her arms.

Says her mother was brave.

Says all the right things, the way you do

when you’ve had time

to practice

your alibi.

-

In Lviv, she rents a room that smells of boiled cabbage and mildew.

The corridor hums like a wound sealed too fast.

The rats live without shame.

She envies them.

-

She works nights folding jeans at a chapel turned retail.

The crucifix sold last year.

She eats in the confessional.

Lights a cigarette.

Breathes out.

Doesn’t ask forgiveness.

-

She doesn’t talk about the basement.

Or the door.

Or the bolt.

Or how they whispered to her—

“Kalyna, open up, we hear them—”

And how she

didn’t.

How she pressed the bolt harder

as the pounding began

as her brother screamed

as her mother called her name like a prayer made of broken teeth

and she stood, still,

barefoot on linoleum,

heart split clean between love

and the sound of boots.

-

She told the soldier she was alone.

He nodded.

Let her pass.

She didn't look back.

-

She crossed the line with clean hands.

Their ashes still under her nails.

-

Now the rats sit at her feet.

They’ve grown bold.

They stare like mirrors.

Like judgment.

Like kin.

She doesn’t flinch.

They know.

They’ve always known.

And they aren’t leaving.

Neither is she,

this purgatory.

.