Volume III Archive

Cody Walker

Petronius

The Arbiter of Elegance would sit us
Around a tray of pig and sciacchetrà. His aim:
Pleasure; his method: pass the cup.
He thought it a science. Thus, writes Tacitus,
“He idled into fame.”

Success at court, and then . . . rumors about
A rival. Charges came, from jealous Tigellinus—
Dabbler, historical hiccup.
We should have carved that man with a hook, but
We didn’t have it in us.

Nobody lives forever. Well, long odds.
Slit your wrists; talk poetry—so the day might go.
It was like everyone gave up:
The artist Nero; then most of the gods.
It happened years ago.

 

“The Mould of a Dog Corpse”

a l’Antiquarium di Boscoreale, Pompeii

It’s not a promising title.
And his legs straight in the air: they give pause.
But I will swear this dog is laughing.
Mouth open, ears back,
doubled over
like a drunk watching late-night television,
he is hysterical,
he is funnier than a volcano.

And
he’s a visionary:
he sees me, immortal at 32,
and cannot, cannot stop laughing.

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