—after Akhmadulina
Some things you don’t come back from.
The body carries on. Of late
it even travels, basks in light.
But knock and there’s no one home.
(How did I love you? With the taste
of iron on my tongue. Try again.
How did I love you? Like a man
destroying what he tries to save.)
The head still does light labor.
But often both the hands fall slack,
and all five senses, in a flock,
go south to weather winter.
Copyright © 2025 by Geoffrey Brock. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 29, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
