ANNA

ANNA

Could a drop of blood
from the pen of Anna Akhmatova
enter my blood
that I might write with a deeper red

A husband falls to the firing squad
a son in prison for no greater crime
than carrying his father’s name

Seventeen months in a Leningrad prison
she waits in line each day for word of life
mid screams of those who learn of death

She has been a poet for thirty years and more
woman in line asks, “can you describe this”
she becomes a poet now