This morning, I pulled a book of unread Russian poetry

off of the shelf. It was contemporary when I bought it

forty years ago. The Soviet Union still had a few years

left to force its tight ideological voices to sing together.

The poet had been condemned to prison for being

a poet — the audacity! Standing there in front of full

bookshelves, I read a few of her poems. She spoke

of silences, talking through walls at night, friendships,

fear, love, and hope for a future, vague and undetermined.

Outside the light changed, it grew darker and forty years

vanished within the pages of the slim book of poetry

I held in my hands. Beneath the deafening drum beat

demanding one voice, one monomaniacal lie, I heard, 

through our fears, a hope begin to scratch at our walls.

(February 4, 2025)