Red Clay Weather

A Parking Lot Just Outside the Ruins of Babylon

—71 A Parking Lot Just Outside the Ruins of Babylon Just outside the dust of Babylon, tank treads not designed for desert transport grind down the royal road from Sardis to Persepolis. Just outside Babylon, the gate of the gods is closed for repair, please choose an alternate route. Ishtar has retired from the fray and may not return, stripped naked of her ornaments and hung upside down in the underworld as she is. Just outside Babylon, the palaces have fallen into disrepair, the lion -crowned columns have feet of clay. Although there is an ample supply of imported spirits, the incense seems to be missing; the astronomical tables are off by centuries. Sun-baked mud brick is crumbling into sand and sentiment, forgetful sediments and fertilizer residues, a depleted water table’s salt and pesticides. Just outside the outside (a window, door, a gate left open in the rush to leave, creaking complaints to desert noon, a blankly blazing candor), the Euphrates is a toxic fire, fish swimming chemical currents don’t know they’re dead, the fishermen eat them anyway, with garlic, onions, and mint, while somewhere somewhat north of Babylon, the Tigris is a predator, a fang of lightning ripping Assyria in half, Akkad is smashed agate and tin. Just outside, just outside, the hanging gardens dangle from a frayed and double-knotted nylon rope, twisting in a storm of chaff and shrapnel; smashed clay tablets’ cuneiform enumerates the daily dead, body bag winds score the bare ruined walls of Susa with no song. shepherd text-2.indd 71 11/22/10 2:07 PM ...