ON THE HILLS OF PERUSIA

after Propertius 1.21 and 1.22

Gallus

As when a smattering of cinders
flips a stable
                                   to stampede
or a name, the whiff
of grain recalls a good day, its shade—

so too do rumors
travel these ramparts.
                                                            You there,
fleeing but unwounded: bend
down to this grass and sandal grit, lift

my voice toward your ear--

        I have a sister named Acacia.
        I have wounds to prove I slipped

through Caesar's lines. Tell her
there's a ribcage waiting

amid this rubble. Tell her
to rebuild me with twice as many bones.

Propertius

Judge me by my family, or even the gods
     sleeping on my mantel— I no longer care. My past
is like a shadow, thinning when the sun plunges
     under those hills. There's dust frosting the tops
of Perusia; there are Roman bones dispersed
     like dinner scraps, as if Jove gorged himself on legions.
At night they drum their femurs on the hot, dry ground,
     testing for reentry. My cousin's there, unburied.
Climb that hillside, listen for his whispering,
     the teeth still free from dirt. As for your question—
I was born in Umbria, a fertile land, with horses.