The Parthenon Friezes
The art of the con:
Pieces,
Fragments of my body
Lifted
By a firm hand,
Sanctioned
By a firman.
Fingers stretched across seas.
Toes bundled in twos, threes.
My right hip
Sits on your altar.
My lower lip
Has lost her
Sister.
Why does your palace possess my boulders?
Why does my face rest on your shoulders?
They say,
the sun
never sets
in the cave
of a hoarder.
But
the chariot is drawn,
the horse has his chest.
The dawn is mounted,
nearing it’s crest.
The lonely visage
Sees her arms
Peeking through the clouds
Reaching
toward
her.
Volume 19, Fall 2021