a journal of fantastical poetry
Punic War IV
by Sonya Taaffe
Is it all just Carthage over again, that foreign city you can raze to her children's bones while your own dedicate themselves to the funeral games of empire, striking poses in white marble polished highly as lies? Is it just the Crusades at seventy-two frames per second, a desert of soldiers with drones of righteousness, the dream of a rood like the teeth of a dog in the bone of a stranger's heart? Are you still prosecuting the war before the last war, the next war already encysted in our waving memories? How thin the snail's shell between Mars-red, Phoinix-porphyry. How fragile the footage —potsherds in the cloud— of our victory.
May 24th, 2019