A Morning In Carthage

Rolling with the prayer
along the marble floor
balancing on the early orange petals of the Mediterranean
into a room of blue and cold
the water grasping at the early heat
growing into a huge mound of melted wax
against our skin
walking down the staircase
stained by the black and white tread
of twenty feet
corners of expertise
dusted with the remains of the day
followed by the bones of a bathing lady
her hands bruised with stories
caring for war-torn sons and weary men
holding sacrificial infants to her breast
circled by an island of excavators
*****
At night she walks amongst us
wiping dreams from our foreheads
tempting us to see her face in the darkness
clouded by the haze of cigars
burning in the mouths of men.
The waves of that ancient sea
lapping at my toes
its depths dripping with tigers
and the milk of Christian martyrs
half expecting a blue-green sun to shine
beneath the surface of that emerald scarf
tied around this land
to save it from a northern town
*****
She thinks she sees them coming
intent on grasping her throat with the
heat of their brow
crushing her under dust and time
distracted by the pretty mosaic beneath my feet
brushing away the dirt and the hair from her eyes
wishing for the water to return
she pours herself into this hole in the ground
a mosaic sun
shining beneath the surface of that emerald time.
- copyright Heather Wallace

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