She picked gummy shreds 

from her vast eyes, tossed 

arms killing air with knuckles 

afterwards stars blurred 

edging windows of her room 

where she sat underlining

Akhtamova’s poems as if desires 

found home in pages.

Where so much is said 

in cold Russian about nights 

towns and trees in Voronezh 

for Osip Mandelstam.

In the frozen basement ‘where 

the exiled poet is banished’ and 

from where she could see 

her loneliness among poplars 

covered with a stubborn snow

fixing her drafts of passion 

do not love a poet 

let the poem learn dislocation.