Friday, November 15, 2013

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.



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