THERE IS THE EAST. THERE IS
INDIA. Sez Benton; facing west.
Statue like parody of statuary in
flailing Roman toga with thick
Grecian curls, map rolled stately
over thigh - America - the great
surveyor trained in all matters
of the soil, which is to say its
taking, friend to Creole and
Saxon alike. Map being odd
when he might rather have held
something else. Pistol once
trained on Andrew Jackson;
a slight forgotten in union,
laughed off in brotherhood.
Railroad spike aloft, spear in
the gut of Indianland. Fine
oriental silk, the jewel of the
Pacific. The slaver's whip.
But first above all this map,
this plot of grids of plots, this
weight on the earth's brow,
this poor excuse, this Canaan.
He had written these words for
a different statue: a new thumb
to rise from the Rockies in name
of Columbus - now by miracle
transmigration Columbus is he,
and this goosepond is the port of
Hispaniola, and women cart strollers
down the Overland Route. He stands
tan and gleaming,
king of nobody's road.