I’ve always loved Chekhov,
the manic visitations, the incessant
comings and goings.
I’ve never had to abandon villa
or watch an orchard fall to the axe.
But I have known the languid whistle
of a train in the night . . .
–excerpt from “For Anton” in Hanging Like Hope on the Equinox by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective, Chicago 2013). First published in Tribeca.