Apr/May 2008 Poetry |
Sleeping with Anna
...since I can't have love, and I have no peace, allow me a bitter glory... --Anna Akhmatova
With dark hair she falls empty
on the pillow beside me. She
bares the thin of her body:
tonight, Anna is my mistress.I turn to her, a woman
better than beautiful—
I turn to the turning of her leaves.
and from me, she will never leave.I cut a lock of gray from my hair,
and turn the lock of my door
to shut the noise of footsteps
and men from my home.Tonight, I am not sad.
Tonight, the quiet stirs my soul.Love became a charming lie
stuck in some man's throat; I waited for its clear.
And I wait still. But tomorrow—
I will wait no longer.
I will fit my arms slowly
into another man's coat.Still, for tonight, I am Anna's alone.
Regret
You lay your quick horses in my lap;
I think of how I would rather sleep,
but I say nothing aloud:I don't believe in being pretty anymore,
or know why I watch you read in bed.
We are simple:There is nothing between us,
we are merely skin—
little-trained of more.I shift my head,
see the compliments of the lamp's shine
strong against the light and dark of your face—I want to lay against your back,
and urge your horses to gallop.
Instead, I give you my back.We close our books and eyes—
I want to be beautiful,
but I say nothing aloud.