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My God Rachel, great poem. I didn't say so yesterday because I thought I'd take time to write a more considered response today: the why of the great (the grace, the poise, the pauses, the careful waltz, the halt waltz of the poem) but I know I probably won't get that time to take, so I'm garbling a huzzah now rather than not saluting you at all. Mairead On Thu, 12 Sep 2002, Rachel Loden wrote: > > IN THE GRAVEYARD OF FALLEN MONUMENTS > > Moscow, near Gorky Park > > > Sometimes I like to think about Leonid Brezhnev > whose white marble torso stands here dreaming > > in the Graveyard of Fallen Monuments. Leonid, > I say, it’s Dick. Where are your goddamn legs? > > Seems like yesterday you broke out the Stoli > at your dacha, and we laughed about détente. > > Those were good times. The world on a razor > of our mutually assured destruction, and yet— > > comrade! you remember—we felt strangely free. > Today not a single statue of Dick Nixon > > stands astride an American city, but there are > National Guardsmen at the glittering bridges > > and Citizen Corps tipsters behind each tree. > Leonid, they miss me. And the impoverished gray > > pensioners in Gorky Park, endlessly pining > for “The Kuznetsk Metal Workers’ Supper,” > > they carry a wild red blowtorch for their Leonchik > too. So dosvidan’ya, you sweet old bastard— > > I’m late to catch an Elks convention shambling > through my Library in Yorba Linda, California, > > laden with cheap “Elvis Meets Nixon” keychains > and a queer uneasiness they cannot place. > > > --Rachel Loden >