Parthenon Marbles

Keith Taylor


I  shouldn’t have taken it,

particularly to sit

like a neglected trophy

on the ledge in my study

between a piece of copper

I bought in the Keewanaw

and some dead coral shaped like

the Venus of Willendorf

I dove for in the ocean

on the windy and wild side

of Oahu 20 years

before I visited Greece.

I should have left it beside

the new, paved road bisecting

the Acropolis of Rhodes

mixed in with construction junk,

cement, and broken shoes.

Not the Parthenon Marbles

getting dusty in Bloomsbury—

just my two inch piece of red clay

with a distinct, delicate,

rounded ridge hand-formed and fired

30 or 3000 years ago

for someone needing

a pot to carry water

or wheat up to the temple—

still, I should have left it there.


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