Akhmatova herself should not be forgotten

Perhaps you didn't know this about me? That I have a thing for love poems?

I set myself the daily task of writing a poem each morning to my body.

I miss you, my friend.

Oliver called hospice the next day. The nurses came and went like ghosts...

The watchers started laughing in her head and she put her fingers to her temples.

The moon was slowly rising over the poster board horizon—its waxing gibbous a face turned away from their party.

When poet Marie Ponsot suffered a stroke last summer at the age of 89, she lost all of her language.

For a woman who needs nursing care every few hours…It’s just too risky.

Could you find a poem by looking up?

“What I wouldn’t give to see the ocean one more time before I die.”