Karakum

As wasps to sun-decanted figs
the archaeologists appear,
but, buried beneath arid land,
the fruit they excavate is sere.

In a woman's grave, they find
the seal that was her talisman,
perfume flasks and vials for unguents
beside her slender hand.

And in the wind that murmurs
to spring poppies on the Turkmen plain,
it is as if the woman spoke,
making her last visions known.

"My perfumed body I bequeath
to sands that cover Karakum,
for soothsayers have prophesied
that sand will be our city's tomb.

The ivory hinges of my thighs,
the breasts like pomegranate buds,
the lips that vied with peonies
were not designed for death, but love.

All my robes of silk and gold
will be consumed by plagues to come,
when the scourge of Macedon
is followed by a force called Rome.

I bequeath my gardens
and their fountains to my only son,
the barley in the granaries,
the many jars of oil and wine…

Keepers of the otherworld
will guard my spirit and its song,
innumerable grains of loam
will transubstantiate my form.

As wasps to sun-decanted figs,
strangers will seek out my home,
but they will speak another tongue
which does not comprehend my name…

The eagle Karakum revered
will fade to scratch dissolved in air;
the serpent of the ancient seals,
to faint impression in the sand…"

Grasses singing in the steppe
remind the skies of lustrous hair,
empty vials lie interred,
beside a small, skeletal hand.

The desert eats the heart like rust;
Karakum is feast for dust…