Anna Politkovskaya
She was told no. She would not stop.
She was told no. She still would not stop.
You see what dynamics are in play—
Three times is for children, junkies, dogs.
These cufflinks, guess what is inlaid
in their gold beds. You can’t. To catalogue
immiseration in fine detail’s a fine life’s
work, for some, and decently paid.
Her obligation was to her kids. Their grief,
inscribed on her headstone, is all history
needs to know of her. If that. She died
knowing the risks—or didn’t, and just died.
When the horse rears up, I eat pellets of sky.
When the horse of state rears up, I eat.
