The Albert Memorial
It takes a special zest to gore the clouds,
to slice the teeming world into marble fourths:
America, a bison primly bowed;
Europe, aurochs sillier than a corpse;
Africa, a camel trying to spit;
and Asia, that overheated elephant.
But you look uncertain, lounging in the thick of it,
draped in gold, in shade of golden tint,
and staring out at heaps of sullen wealth,
the marrow scraped and sucked from Egypt’s spine.
Did you ever hear, tapping on your shelf,
that long white stick of unmalicious time?
Forester McClatchey is a poet from Atlanta, GA. His work has appeared in Pleiades, Bayou Magazine, and Thrush, among other journals.
The Ekphrastic Review
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