To Nastasya
How thick the cloth is
that covers your body.
He didn’t know why
he pierced such skin.
Your name, I wake with it
on my tongue, it slips
through teeth. How can one
believe in your name?
His love was no horizon.
It stretched, limitless circle,
across his chest, digging its
talons deep to cool down love.
I saw you through the window,
my hand was in the flowerbox.
The fortochka, unhinged, loosened
his cries into the street.
To tell of the violets climbing
your bruised back would be
an unkindness; dark constellations
against a pale sky.
Take the knife back to the garden,
cut the black spot from roses,
trim back the camellia,
let them grow again.
