We used to meet up once a week
for wine and sex and ham and cheese.
Now she’s gone, so she must speak
through shards of poems she shared, like these:
Tsvetaeva’s writhing frozen birch
while meeting Don Juan behind the church;
Gumilev’s loping giraffe beside
Lake Chad, the amazing shapes on its hide;
Mandelstam’s swinging on a rope with board
in the fevered memory of his own backyard;
Akhmatava’s lover in an ill-starred
tryst, temporary though still adored.
Without the pieces she so lovingly glossed
these marvels would be lost.
*
Here are the poems referred to, in reverse order:
Akhmatova, Never to Share / Не будем пить
Mandelstam, Yard / Только детские книги читать
Gumilev, Giraffe / Жираф
Tsvetaeva, Don Juan / Дон-Жуан На заре морозной
Other translations from Russian:
Pushkin, O God, Don’t Let Me Go Nuts / Не дай мне бог сойти с ума
Gumilev, A New Organ / Прекрасно в нас влюбленное вино
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