To Anna Akhmatova

Anna, as soon as you call me
the fog no longer swells
the room of every evening.

Yesterday I lazed from the couch to the desk
and back to the couch.

The sky was a carnivorous anemone.

It is so easy to impress others
by doing absolutely nothing.

You have seen its beginning.

You were just a girl when soldiers rose
from your hands and led you
through the Neva’s mist.

Deus conservat omnia. Deus nihil servat.

In the night, black as pitch,
a forked snake with acid green scales
follows me. I know it isn’t real,
but I can never convince myself
if not by turning back.

What haunts you, love
or its shadow?

What I thought was the veil of my life
being lifted, was just the sky’s drape
lacerating into rain. It was the cloth
I have been waving around
as if it were a handkerchief
saying goodbye,
your black Turkish shawl
dropped over my shoulders.

That is why I twisted against
dovecotes and gondolas
of that labyrinthine city
to face the gray station;
you were once sitting on its steps.

With a slow desire
I have waited all day
for you to come through
the limit of my silence.

Only you can accuse me.