political sonnet

LAST WORDS

                                  i.m. Alexander Litvinenko

Some Russian in a London hospital

is losing all his hair, can barely speak.

The doctors are confused.  His liquids leak.

It seems he may not make it, after all.

He slumps his ugly body to the wall.

Polonium-210 is quite unique –

this instrument of power at its peak

reduces fractious elements to nil.

And yet a feeble whisper emanates

from dying lips (all victims are pathetic).

You’re a bona fide barbarian,

he croaks (to Mr. Vladimir Putin).

You’ve proved you don’t deserve the trust

of my beloved Russia.  Last words stick.

Political footballs : Putin, Vienna, Russian poetry, Superbowl Sunday, murder

I had trouble sleeping last night, thinking about whether anyone over in Russia would notice this poem or understand what I'm doing here. Not many Americans will understand what I'm doing here (you'd have to be something of an Acmeist, I guess).

(Also, it was written on the night of Superbowl Sunday (I skipped the game). Which connects it, in a distant way, with Brodsky.)