It was a bit steep,

as you discovered when

the guns began their guided tour.

 

(In Parliament, hearing the shots,

the legislators scurried away with their outrage).

 

Shell casings bounce across the mosaics.

What older assassins might have left their work

on these tiles,

some petty Caesar’s blood?

 

And this was Carthage, too,

until the Romans posted it with curses

that have yet to be lifted.

The story of the salted ground was a lie.

Simply unnecessary.

 

In other galleries, other cities,

the statues have been erased into

what they were

before there were gods.

 

Here, when you died,

the statues vanished.

You were the last to see them

free of the footnote

of your murders.

 

Everyone who comes

now

will think of you.

This is where it happened, they will say.

Here.

 

If they come.

               – Stephen Vincent Kobasa