Volume II Archive

Laura Bylenok

Sonnet With A Backbone Trying To Puzzle Out Etruscan Words

The symbols, close, carved like runes in stone,
or clay as red, crumbled, sharp as blood.
Familiar, arced angles scraped in mud,
faced backwards. Slow, spell a name – a crone,
a maiden. Urn, words spill, ravaged–tell
your story. Quick, pluck the coiled clip
and translate worked metal, curve and chip.
A woman, charred black on clay can fell
a lion. Then, soldiers spear a god.
Though tombs are lost, bodies ravished, gone,
your letters write in constellations, burned
like points of light, lucid fragments, flawed,
revolving. Now – navigate the sawn
off edges. Count. Covet words we’ve learned.