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"