Believe it or not, this poem is about the incarceration of Russian feminist rock protest group, Pussy Riot.
The lights go out, and deep in the city
black petals fall in requiem,
descending past cathedral domes
to mottle emptied streets.
They stumble in the dark
behind the paper-thin walls
of cankered apartment blocks –
hands reaching past splintered windows.
Down in the gulags
comrades sing the songs of freedom,
sharing broth and secret ink,
taking turns to watch the moon
as it cleaves a forbidden dance
across the frost-slow river
to the banks of the starving wolf.
(The Interpreter’s House 54 )