There, Akhmatova Stood: Of Young Lev, Imprisoned For His Parents' Fame Poem by Leialoha Apo Perkins

Grief has no face, no feet. Its hands, bound, tongue paralyzed -
if withered is the heart. Eating is from inside small paned windows
looking out and seeing snow descend, bend trees to sag. Snow: glass.

Baby foxes jump. The Night Watchman clocks his lantern’s way
- from good habit. Where a son’s horizon shifts is map,
a world to walk into, a place to talk. If clamped behind thick
scrofulous walls while others out, a mother ages old and old,
as Atlas’ bearing punishment with his stone perpetually to atone, alone?

The sky moves, littered with diamonds and rubies hurtling
somersaults. Galaxies steer their courses, violently or not.
Each day a son is born or taken away, or out, as mothers, every day
weeping, or shouting, cursing or praying, or all, alternately,
except those choosing that fool's wisdom - the Christ's,
that Perfectionist's. He chose his Father's way; his Mother's
at his feet, humbled unto the earth, resolved by grace, to keep.