In Akhmatova's House One Evening Poem by Leialoha Apo Perkins

How many times must the NKVD knock
on the door? Snap to attention, boot heels
clicking, the brass knuckles of their belts glint
on the polished oak floor? The china quivers,
safely behind the locked glass doors of the cabinet.
The curtains flap, limp, ashen before the brass
storm lamp. Wicker chairs crackle.
Gumilev stands, straight arrow shoot, breasting
the Guns. A moth flickers. The heart beats tight,
chainball skipping. The room’s temper shades.
Handcuffs click. Pallid faced, Gumilev - his
night shirt fierce red - is marble. He walks out.

Little Lev clutched your posted leg, solid
the ground unyielding. One small fist,
balled, his eyes - dark saucers – fill, to the brim.
But no tear falls. You blanch - silent, witless
witness to the brute, the ritual. Terror is sacrifice.

They took Lev out. They Shot him.