What My Mother Saw -- Moscow 1962

On the occasion of what would have been her 101st birthday

In retelling tales, the teller
Tells us what tales entail
Some little truth.

No tale is ever exactly
The same tale, and the tale
Retold tells us what speaks 
To the teller.

My mother went to Moscow 
In 1962, 
An American delegate to
Ease Cold War tensions,
A pretty irony for a Coney Island born
Young Pioneer in 1929, so proud then
Of her red bandana. 

The Kremlin's onion domes were
Beautiful
The subways clean and
As near could be divine in that
Godless state.

But most often she told 
Of shock to see
The cops beat a drunk on the street.

Her brother, in epileptic seizure 
On New York subway platforms,
Would be beaten by cops who took
Seizure for drink; 

But socialist cops, so told her folks, 
Would know better, and even if not,
The Workers there have paradise
Under Uncle's benign mustached gaze.

But she saw, the tourist delegate,
Still full of Soviet faith,
The cops beat 
A drunk
On a Moscow street. 

Shaken yet unbroken
She wore the red bandana for a 
Few more years
Until the red diaper baby's 
Rash was unbearable.