To Solzhenitsyn

If there was a door somewhere
behind which you still resided
with all the weight of your sadness,

i would travel there and knock,
freighted with questions,
with pieces of sheep’s disguise
for you to finger,
and ask if perhaps you have seen
the beauty that you mentioned
in your address to the world.

Because, Aleksandr,
we need her more than ever,
with her tempest of metaphors
mouthing their truths,
and the stars she hides
in the darkness
around everyone’s heart.

Tell me how i should usher her in,
or light the way
that her sorcery traces,

for we all are tied
to the florid moorings of fleshthrall,
drowsing in refusal,
unable to enter
her sepal-swirl and petal-storm
where formlessness plays
with the immaculacy of matter.

And how your furrows would deepen
as i walk you through instances
where the world has become screen
hobbling every decision,
honing with every rootless flicker
the perfection of the lie;

and at the moment when i fear
this knowledge might break you,
your forehead smooths
and your eyes swim into change.

I follow you up the stairs
and into the cool light of your study
where I watch you stoop,
the wind heaving against the windows
waltzing cloud with brightness
as you withdraw from its depth
a small box,
then turning to me you say:

“Place this box in your poem,
and let those who read of it
carry its dream
through the silence that follows.”

(c) Seth Grube