I’ve forgotten the last time
so I’ll write about a different time.
It was warm.
Stemmed glasses chased each other around the table.
The wine breathed in the season.
Something simmered on the stove.
Someone waited for a cab.
You called in for takeout.
We selected items from two columns.
Finely tuned impediments carved the moment out of time.
Whoa!
Strike that line!
Your Russian friend – that’s what we all called her –
your Russian friend stepped out of a magazine
and stopped by
on her way to a restaurant
where her lover and meal waited.
She again spoke of the Old Country
the cycles of tumbling granite
the many shiny rings
and the artist who painted her portrait
in the nude.
My cell failed.
Sorry, but that's all I remember.
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| Anna Akhmatova |