Poetry

Leaving Russia

She steps onto the plane,
Takes her seat,
And feels the lack on her finger,
Where his ring used to be,
Now a hole in her soul
With jagged edges-
Puncturing her heart
Every time it pulses,
But she's too numb
To feel a thing.
She buckles her seatbelt-
Doesn't know why:
It can't save her,
Already broken,
Beyond repair.
Then she notices
As the plane takes flight
That somehow it seems fitting,
Somehow she belongs
To the Russian sky:
Too cold for clouds,
Too polluted for stars,
Just black,
Black,
Black.