End of Myth
       

Hotels are sprouting, white as scars
against the green sides of the mountains,
their signs pointing the way with little arrows—
Hotel Orpheus, Dionysus Inn—
a last reminder of what was here before.
The road still winds like a blind goat but now
it's smooth, all its wounds licked over.
No more sheep blocking up the road,
not a single donkey cart in sight.
My son is disappointed. I told him
there would be horses and chickens,
moos and baas and real livestock smells.
I try to distract him with a billboard
of a cow eating chocolate, but it's no use—
we have those at home, and the signs are clear.
The West is coming, death is banished,
no more toilets made of two foot-platforms
with a dirt hole in the center, steam rising
from its depths like an oracle in early morning.
Everything is ceramic and flushes
at the appropriate moment, carrying away
all mention of your sins. Even the cigarettes
are cleaner, sporting filters and warnings
that they will kill you. We smoke anyway, knowing
it is no longer a matter of life and death.
Only a definition of terms.

Copyright © 2010 Holly Karapetkova All rights reserved
from Words We Might One Day Say
Washington Writers' Publishing House
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission