MIDNIGHT, MARINA WRITING

for Tsvetaeva

Falling asleep alone, waking alone,

God knows what you are, Marina,

drawing song from poverty,

from your chair reclaiming all that’s lost.

You hide in your heart a glowing coal,

tilt like the moon wheels toward darkness,

knowing night’s ways.

But for the abyss, your gaze gains nothing.

There’s no wizard. No one confides in the ocean.

My dear, it’s the same this century,

the fire gone cold. No one makes us happy.

“So many people, so much loneliness.”

For this I weep in silence, saluting midnight.

Now there’s only the sweet stab of black cypress,

only the gleaming blade,

that swift, serene gash of light.