Monuments

I was like you, said Lincoln, rising from his marble seat, measured, marmoreal, Lincoln of the Lincoln Memorial, assassinating days, he continued, sitting here like a statue, until I rose, scattering pigeons, just as you will rise, a towering figure, he said, kneeling, lapping huge, slaking gulps from the reflecting pool he’d watched through endless parching noons, through dusks, on hands and knees, Lincoln, lapping, crawling as he gulped, rising on the far side, kicking over the Washington Monument as he’d so often imagined through his long immobility, because it was there, and such kinetic fantasies beset the male mind. “That was magnificently satisfying,” he cried, beard raised to the wind, “but how can I, Abe, be satisfied while you remain in captivity, unsure what, in this scenario, would be your reflecting pool, what your inaccessible monument? Your pool, my friend, is what you would lap in great, relieved gulps if you thought you would die, or become rich, imminently, or otherwise were maladaptively improvident, the monument that which you can topple but once.” He paused, straining to reset the great stone phallus on its crumbled base, giving in, laying it gently aside. “Look around,” he commanded, spreading his arms, knocking over a gnarled, ancient elm. “Is it a world suited to resplendent giants that we live in, or the other way around, I mean that world living inside of us? Naturally,” he said, pushing his hands into his marble pockets, striding, hunched, across the bare cement basin of the reflecting pool. “we would try to turn ourselves inside out.” He settled back onto his seat, resuming a more or less dignified, monumental stillness. “Naturally,” he repeated, watching the pigeons, returned, cooing to one another, strutting over his beautifully, meticulously sculpted hands.