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The Burghers of Calais

Shadowed ghosts break the spell
of wide green blades and comforting skies.
Pedestals, broken with intent, sway
beneath bare feet that might be
cold in the winter but must be warm
under the mist-filtered sun. Their robes

are too thin; their bodies are too thin; they must have cut weight,
or perhaps the sculptor did, shaving flakes of plaster towards
perfection. My dark red cup, tea or whatever it was, would fill
these phantoms, transform their inverted smiles. But it did not
transform mine. Ice could have done it. Or a crispier sandwich.
Delicacies that these Burghers will never know. Delicacies that rise
in mission-style architecture from grasses that pour millions
into the dirt. Delicacies for which our wealthy friends walk and walk
and photograph and show their children: “this could be you.”

But those children will not know the press of wet grass
under their jeans. They will not see the roses
that kiss my eyes, the distant squirrel
under the frame of autumn trees;
those children who suffer
under the bronze.

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