Sestina for the Black Earth

           In memory of S.P., my grandfather 

You, fatherless, wished revolution’s wounds
might finally mend. At thirteen, held fit to farm,
you knew chilblains, threadbare boots. But not theft.
Mam sold a calf in Stavyshche, and led home,
to work the land, the frayed young pony
whose coat you brushed to gloss in the village.

You yoked him to a sleigh, sped from the village
for sugar beet pulp, forgetting your wounds.
Then, sour rumor landed near the pony.
Men with guns brought state decrees for the farms.
The village elder called all from their homes
to gather. An armed partisan roused by theft