Lilianya's Recollection

( Somewhere outside of Moscow, 1915)

My love,

              My Poet

walked out of the yard.
His head shaven, his eyes --
the hazel leaf
              shadowed with fatigue.

I pulled a loaf of rye

and bottle of vodka
from my bag.
                    His hand

motioned No!  He wanted

a washbowl and soap
to cleanse the dirt,
                    the musk of prison.

                  And even more, my tears

to moisten his skin -- dry
like parchment speckled
with grit, indifference milled
in  the cold stone of his cell.

My young breath on his

held the heat of a match
                      but for the moment
                      it was enough.