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.