On a stone step in the conquered city
she hugs herself and rocks, shifting
the weight of grief that could swallow an empire
back and forth and back and forth.
Taken away, light of my eyes.
May I bear a serpent’s egg
if I live. Remember this our shame forever.
Till the next warrior drags her away. Later
the stone is dragged off, too, for the city rebuilt,
and against it winds arrange the dust
of that city and its king and its conqueror.
Even the river makes itself a new bed.
Years pass through the dissolving plaza
on camelback, on cloudback, lordly beings
that know only one direction, one pace.
And perpendicular through a few thin minutes,
one gray feather, cupped like an ear,
has fallen a long way. It drifts down ragged
and docks against a chip of marble
the shape of an eye—lies on its spine and shivers,
tips for an afternoon from side to side.