House of the Vestal Virgins
janine canan
Although the Vestals
have been covered now
in plastic bubble and wrapping paper,
ready to be portered to some museum --
one stone Virgin still stands tall,
head and shoulder gracefully draped,
stump of her upper arm pointing in mid-day sun
past Caesar and Mussolini's plaza,
hot plastic crackling in the breeze
that stirs round her feet --
here where Vesta Herself once
fluttered eternal in Her golden flame.
Now motionless the vulva pool,
stuffed thick with lily pads
and edged with ruffly pink roses,
reminds of that entrance where all arrive
and soon depart -- even us,
the living priestesses of Her creation.
