after Akhmatova
for Tsvetaeva
Do not come crawling like a whelp
to my flowerbed. Come
in a tall flame on the living
window-petaled pane of day.
Come to my bed in rivets and rags
and mud-soiled moans. We will become
fan blades of sex, muscle, and bone; we will
turn lilacs shameless to the night and feed
on myth where
I’ll hear your voice as black music
roaring in the ardent green.
Return to Issue
n°1 | Return to
Front Page
