Anna Akhmatova burned
her poems and the light of Madrid was like water
at La Latina luncheonette I ate a cup of chocolate
and a motor oil churro
every day for a week
...the cherry bomb alley that was our street
Hotel Chelsea ablaze from a rum-soaked pillow and a cigarette, 1977
iron balconies were dropping like lace
windows were popping like sobs...
"Can you describe this?" someone asked
as she stood on line "Yes"
she said "I can"