Akhmatova Afterward Poem by Leialoha Apo Perkins

Trembling, furious, quaking Fundaments
- silently screaming eagles was Akhmatova.
“This man is a Firebrand! A Torch! Poet!
He loves peacocks, even song, old maps!
His is a magnificent voice! He makes Russians
proud! ” She might have said that,
she thought. She did not.

Steel boot taps stamped her voiceless rage
echoing silently into the common ground
that’s grave. No pyres. Bonfires warmed
the huddled in roads, by the Neva, Leningrad.

Here—fodder for mulch in the Kremlin,
the People’s Garden to flower in the Spring.
The Squares lay bare, old. The wind alone
burned freezing cold, spread its flickering
Wildfire seeds, crystals, broadcast
across the dark blue roof of the world.

__________
To be read after 'In Akhmatova's House, One Evening'