Morning
star, can you
hold as I cross
the river and the sky
wraps me softly? Dew
or tears – no one
can tell. The body’s
secret: it is
the whole
of me after all. I’m
barely here. Morning
star, shine on
my absence. Short
death with its long
victory song.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 4.
See all items about Anatoly Molotkov