Of course, Mars circles between you and Earth
sometimes blocking clear view of home, just as
war always invaded. Even from birth,
your mother—foiled, volatile pianist—
weaned you with constant quarrels. Poetry
often your savior, you survived Moscow
where revolution trapped you, famine preyed
on your flesh and psyche, disemboweled
Irina. Joining Efron in Berlin, you
orbited affairs there and in Paris;
saw him flee to Russia’s horrors. Ever true
to roots, you returned, only to perish
by hanging yourself. Now, loved from afar,
your memory glows in this distant star.
Roger Armbrust
June 23, 2009
