By Margarita Delcheva

The storm I sent for you walks
on the tips of the pines.

Still visible from space
because the light bulbs are different,
the divide between East and West Berlin
is a kind of Milky Way
for lost agrarian planes.

The rain first is heard,
then felt. A figure
in the red truck
between the tall firs.
It has not come for your
suitcase with the straps.

I never took off the tiny
glove from that winter.
I grew up.

My hand squeezing the memory
still the hand of a little girl.

Margarita Delcheva is a poet, performer, and PhD candidate in Comparative Literature at UCSB. Margarita is a founding editor at Paperbag, an online poetry and art journal, created in 2009. Her poetry book The Eight-Finger Concerto was published in Bulgaria in 2010. Also by this poet: "Another Recipe for Getting Lost"