the streets have been renamed
by politicians to bear fewer
remembrances of colonial times
as society evolves to retire master
narratives; what would it mean
to my father and his generation
to regard this graveyard of the past
collected together in one memorial
park, acres of bronze busts
all over the nation, monuments
beheaded, spray painted with
graffiti, or simply taken down
the Generalissimo as wounded
hero, the dictator riding out
on a dogged steed, soldiers
salute each day in choreographed
displays of military honor for one
who lays putrefying in state
guarded by young men in white
uniforms who perform daily
acts of allegiance, forbidden from
taking photographs of the tomb,
I focus instead on the 20-year-old
cadets saluting the ruler who never
commanded them, sweating in the heat
of mid-day, the vacant face of the recruit,
his brow patted dry by a superior while
standing at something less than full attention