Devil’s Lake

As when a smattering of cinders

flips a stable

to stampede

or a name, the whiff

of grain recalls a good day, its shade—

so too do rumors

travel these ramparts.

You there,

fleeing but unwounded: bend

down to this grass and sandal grit, lift

my voice toward your ear--

I have a sister named Acacia.

I have wounds to prove I slipped

through Caesar’s lines. Tell her

there’s a ribcage waiting

amid this rubble. Tell her

to rebuild me with twice as many bones.

Judge me by my family, or even the gods

sleeping on my mantel—I no longer care. My past

is like a shadow, thinning when the sun plunges

under those hills. There’s dust frosting the tops

of Perusia; there are Roman bones dispersed

like dinner scraps, as if Jove gorged himself on legions.

At night they drum their femurs on the hot, dry ground,

testing for reentry. My cousin’s there, unburied.

Climb that hillside, listen for his whispering,

the teeth still free from dirt. As for your question—

I was born in Umbria, a fertile land, with horses.