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.