The Companion

This week’s poem is from a little book by a Russian poet named Yevtushenko (not your most well known poet, but good, I think). I got it for 50 cents at the English department book sale.

The Companion- Yevtushenko

She was sitting on the rough embankment,
her cape too big for her tied on slapdash
over an odd little hat with a bobble on it,
her eyes brimming with tears of hopelessness.
An occasional butterfly floated down
fluttering warm wings onto the rails.
The clinkers underfoot were deep lilac.
We got cut off from our grandmothers
while the Germans were dive-bombing the train.
Katya was her name. She was nine.
I’d no idea what I could do about her,
but doubt quickly dissolved to certainty;
I’d have to take this thing under my wing;