TEN YEARS WITHOUT COMMUNICATION

It’s an Akhmatova sort of sky –

Heavy, grey, kind.

My head knows you’re still alive, just scattered,

But my heart refuses to tell the difference.

My little babushka cries sparrow tears.

I recognize the steel set of her spine as my own.

Unlike her, I know you’re not coming back.

You’re living your best life without us.

There is nothing for me to cry over.

I’m grateful for my inability to mist,

For feeling unchanged,

That the whole city is feeling slow.