In Moscow, my darling Montague
She is afraid that she is turning to stone,
her hair is knotted in fistfuls of curls and
the length is almost comical now,
she is sleeping in a twin bed in Moscow,
dreaming of the rain soaked
Washington of her youth,
she lays the word out in her mind,
clicks the syllables over her teeth,
a prayer, a lullaby
and the old dog bays at the windowsill,
lemons ripe in the fruit dish
under the curtain where the ghost
maiden fingers the clock suspiciously.
She writes poems by hand now,
slowing herself down to let the
words pool in her mind before
committing them on paper.
The old catholic priests
say their benediction, absolve
her of the sin of sinning,
she becomes transcendentalistic,
myriad, hopefully erratic
in the tiny apartment, she
wears a diamond ring to confuse people,
and to comfort herself on lonely nights
when she folds the covers over herself
to fall sleep alone in the bed.
Her body is an unopened love note
between the sheets, unapologetic
in the way she turns the other corner
of the blanket down in anticipation.