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John Leavitt is a writer and artist. He lives in New York City.
I’m walking up
what is now Pushkinskaya—
walking up from the station
at Okhotny Ryad—
But it was I who held your arm as the three gravediggers hammered your father’s narrow coffin shut.
They keep the aprons folded, clean and stacked on plank-board shelves.
As the U.S. considers intervention in Haiti, refugees are turned away.
El Chapo is the face of a curiosity we cannot escape.
On the “imperial nostalgia” driving British culture war.