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
recovering

                      ...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

Anna Akhmatova
as she stood on line "Yes"

she said "I can"