At the Intersection of Scribes and Martyrs

A shivering gypsy sells wedding soup by the cup where
the Avenue of Martyrs meets the Street of Scribes.

Inside the scrivener's shop: a pensioner pleads
vehemently with his hat size, while a deranged maid
inquires into her condition of pissing peacock
feathers every morning at first light. Clerks sharpen
quills, ask for the hat's address, and the frantic
scribe watches one cup of tea after another go cold.

Outside, exhausted conquistadors man shady benches
along the plaza, stretching last memories of the
warmth of the New World, getting their stories
straight.

Finally, near closing time, the King himself appears-
crowned, ermined and furtive - commissioning a letter
sent to the Lord on High, imploring for exact details
of the Divine Right. Almost undone, the scribe bolts
the door and begins to compose. The King drinks cold
tea, reads the cold leaves, and waits.

All the while, just beyond the walls, Antigone’s blunt
pickax can be heard chunking up old bones from
stubborn dirt. The gypsy shivers, stirs the soup,
keeps her eyes peeled for the police.

Eurydice, Paralyzed under the Ramparts of Flesh

If I had the gall, I’d scale
this fortress of corpses. I’d gouge
eyes, cling to scalps, sink bare

feet in raw gut for toe holds,
for any sort of purchase at all.
The walls are livid bodies

rotting, their eternal punishment
being the ramparts of Hell.
These stacked corpses

counterpoint the other
inmates clawing
femoral ladders, gangrenous scaffolds.

The damned hint if you are capable
of climbing the dead, you
are free, that the agonized bastion is

Hell’s version of fair play.
Still, I can’t force myself to
contribute to the torture. Like my departed

lover, I simply can’t do
what must be done.
This is my torment,

my limit, and my forgiveness.

-- Tobias Seamon