Spanish Sagunto came down, finally, in a halo of ash and spark, beneath the elephants who shimmied and tucked their ambling grins— Hannibal with an alabaster heron under each arm; and someone who had tied them both, in loops of silk, dead. So, Rome would smoke its fat another year. There was that—sic transit gloria— the empire resolved against itself, no decisive battles, just a tusk of unclaimed land gathering beach tar and disappearing in the glare— Taurini girls dissolving sadly into groves; their sons, falsettos who sang, anywhere, for a drink; Hasdrubal encamped at Zama, enraged, upsetting saucers of sibilant milk: everyone led an expectation down a celibate trail, carving its name in softest stone, wherever water was decisive, or Hannibal strode with torch held high: doubtless, this empire, doubtless.© Seth Abramson
from New Orleans Review