Great Anna understood dying slowly.
Knowing her rooms were bugged, she’d host a friend
at the dining table, talking lowly
of weather and music, even pretend
to toast the Party with vodka. Then hand
a poem to read in silence, careful
so paper didn’t rustle. Her command
of false banter would rule while the fearful
trusted one memorized each secret verse.
Don’t you love to run through snow? Anna’d ask.
I really can’t think of anything worse
than life without winter. The guest’s mute task
complete, he’d nod. Here, light your pipe, she’d say,
as she burned her lyric in the ashtray.
Roger Armbrust
January 16, 2012
