Marble Torso of a Roman Youth

His flesh, pale as the marble Fashioned into the destiny of his days, Is on display in the show window Of a nearby antiques store on The Alameda de Hércules. As for his soul, if he had one, No one is sure what merchant Might now possess it. Two centuries after Christ, Someone did make sure that a block Of purest stone render him immortal, Like the flight of birds Or the ebb and flow of the tides.

I invited him to dine with me, To share lamb, And his story and the stories Of those who were his companions. He was reticent and noticeably uncomfortable But the wine brought to his memory The fire of other nights, And he inquired as to the names Of my wife and children and of other kin. In a voice that sounded most like The pastor’s song to his flock, He spoke of the fire that leveled someone’s heart, Someone very dear to him In the port of Hadrian’s city.

I realized that the place was not accurate, but that his story was When, as we stood before the sprawling river, He spoke to me of its waters As the greatest ever seen by a Roman. I knew then that the birthmark Gracing his breast Was but a trace left by the years spent under the silt.

I feared for my life, So distant until that night; For just as one river covered his heart, So another likely covers Marble stone in the city of the dead.

I then placed two coins On that ruin And walked into the night, Again alone, knowing now with certainty About myself and about many others, We who are not even torsos of the ancient past.