Death and Memory in Moscow

I’d been in Russia a month 

when Alfred Schnittke died.

Well before the motorcade had

wound its way alongside the

Moscow River to Novodevichy

I’d seen the crossless cupolas

proclaiming some portent.

Gale force winds had swept the city

a fortnight prior and stripped

the magnificent onion domes 

of their Christian significance,

like time traveling back to 

the days of the Soviet Union

when stars rose as crosses fell.

I sat at the base of a statue, bronze

Gogol brooding over my shoulder, 

my nose buried in the Moscow Times.

Maybe  he was curious as to who 

would be joining him at this famous

cemetery for authors, musicians,

playwrights and poets.  Yes, poets.

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