Hannibal and the Elephants

Loxodonta africana
are more difficult to tame
than their Asian cousins,
but the ancient Carthiginians
and Romans did it, and used them
in their armies.

Ploughed over the Alps, white
as salt, to arrive in the morning light
to the city’s disbelieving occupants.

The giants stood in silence,
ears flapping like leaves,
feet planted on familiar city streets.
The people of the city
had never seen them before
and for the first moments
could not breathe. Snatches
of description had reached them—
beasts with teeth embedded
in their heads—the listeners
imagined a grisly mosaic
of canines and molars studding
the animals’ faces. “Long flexible noses”
conjured up a sort of Pinnochio.
At “the size of a house
and feet big as dinner plates”
they just laughed and dismissed
the rumors as fancy.

So nothing could have prepared
them for that moment when
the unimaginable materialized,
corporeal, before them.

They should have been afraid
but their bodies were filled
brimful with wonder. In the stillness
the peoples’ knocking hearts
were not betrayed by trembling hands
or knees. The only thing that shook
was the elephants’ ears in the breeze.

The silence stretched
in the yellow light.
Finally a man here or there
realized that the moment
had become elastic,
infinitely long. And began
to breathe again.

It was then that the elephants charged.
Beautifully curling trunks
slapped around columns,
grasping, ripping them down.
Majestic heads swung
side to side, parting the sea of people
with two white swords.
And the screaming. Through dust clouds
raised by feet falling as falling trees.
Trumpeting—what a word—
fanfare, bugles and brass,
maybe even drums.
The people keening.