On whose account the maid Camilla died. . .
Vergil, AENEID, XI
Beneath the opaque plastic umbrella
Camilla strikes a model pose:
head just turned; tangled curls falling
mutely to crash against those shoulders
lifting to meet that quick smile sculpted
to imitate a woman’s lust.
Blue eyes tell the child
above the nose-length scab, blood wound
acquired from a certain, unyielding sidewalk.
What more epic battles wait you?
What hulking new Aeneas beds his tempting Dido
and roughly dreams an empire fated
to shake your amazing, proud head
beneath that opaque, plastic umbrella?