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 at 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