So. I keep going back to my bookshelves thinking this time I will find her, my lost Anna Akhmatova. This time she will be there in her light green Penguin binding. I don't remember lending her. I don't remember moving her.
She's not there. I miss her. Marina Tsvetaeva misses her with me.
from "Poems for Akhmatova"
You block out everything, even the sun
at its highest, hold all the stars in your hand!
If only through--some wide open door, I
could blow like the wind to where you are,
and starting to stammer, suddenly blushing,
could lower my eyes before you
and fall quiet, in tears, as
a child sobs to receive forgiveness.
Losing my Akhmatova
{
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
}
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