Lisa, a Russian child, in Kostroma in winter
The Eleventh Poem June 12, 2022
The days go by quietly.
I eat the end of one loaf,
the beginning of another.
The words form before
I ask for them. Am I losing
my memory? A little, but
not significantly. I plan
to teach again in September.
Four women writing their
books count on me. I’ll
tell them, “If I make a
mistake, let me know.”
My memory is sometimes
slow, but it’s still alive.
I see those scenes again.
Myself in a room with
Russian journalists and
a frightened interpreter.
She doesn’t know my
English words. We manage.
They understand me. The
tape-recorder breaks. They
laugh. A familiar problem
in Russia. But unlikely in
the U.S. I sip my tea, finish
my toast. Another Sunday
morning poem flows from
my pen.
The days go by quietly.
I eat the end of one loaf,
the beginning of another.
The words form before
I ask for them. Am I losing
my memory? A little, but
not significantly. I plan
to teach again in September.
Four women writing their
books count on me. I’ll
tell them, “If I make a
mistake, let me know.”
My memory is sometimes
slow, but it’s still alive.
I see those scenes again.
Myself in a room with
Russian journalists and
a frightened interpreter.
She doesn’t know my
English words. We manage.
They understand me. The
tape-recorder breaks. They
laugh. A familiar problem
in Russia. But unlikely in
the U.S. I sip my tea, finish
my toast. Another Sunday
morning poem flows from
my pen.
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