An Archaeology of Snow Forts
Bryan Thao Worra
There’s not much left to be said
Some well-washed stone hasn’t heard before.
History is composed of broken walls and bad neighbors:
Just ask these chips from Berlin, the Parthenon and Cathay
Or these cool magma hands of Pompeii, dark and grey.
If you listen carefully in the right place
On University Avenue, you will learn
There is a minor wall near the Yalu River
Dancing on the hills of Qin for the moon,
Who knows exactly what I mean
In every tongue worth mention.
She’s moonlighting as a curved garden serpent
Coiling around old Laocoon,
The Suspicious One with his astute eye,
Crooning with a sly wink,
“Come, touch true history.”
And how the moon must laugh when she spies
The tiniest hill in Minnetonka,
Where the small hands of the earth have erected
A magnificent white wall,
A snowy miniature Maginot
Raised some scant hours before,
Already melting into a hungry, roiling river
Who is not yet finished eating Louisiana for brunch.
