They Should Have Kept The Place Nameless

National Geographic: The Story of Earth

He imagined
a town called A.
Around the communal fire
they’re shaping arrowheads
and carving tributes
to the god of the hunt.
One day
some guys with spears
come over the ridge,
perform all kinds of meanness,
take over,
and the new guys
rename the town B.
Whereupon they hang around
the communal fire
sharpening arrowheads
and carving tributes
to the god of the hunt.

Some climatic tragedy occurs
--not carving the correct
tributary figurines probably
--and the people of B
move farther south,
where word is
there’s good fishing,
at least according to
those who wander to B
just before being
cooked for dinner.
Another tribe
of unlucky souls
stops for the night
in the emptied village,
looks around at
the natural defenses
provided by the landscape,
and decides to stay awhile.
It’s a while lot better
than their last digs--
what with the lack
of roving tigers and such--
plus it comes
with all the original fixtures.

They call the place C,
after their elder,
who has learned that
pretending to talk to spirits
is a fun gag
that gets you stuff.
Time passes.
More invasions, more recaptures,
D, E, F, and G. H stands
as it is for a while.
That ridge provides
some protection
from the spring floods,
and if you keep
a sentry up there
you can see the enemy
coming for miles.
Who wouldn’t want
to park themselves
in that real estate?
The citizens of H
leave behind cool totems
eventually toppled
by the people of I,
whose lack of aesthetic sense
is made up for by military acumen.

J, K, L, adventures in
thatched roofing,
some guys with funny religions
from the eastern plains,
long-haired freaks
from colder climes,
the town is burned to
the ground and rebuilt
by still more fugitives.
This is the march of history.
And conquest and false hope.
M falls to plague,
N to natural disaster--
same climatic
tragedy as before,
apparently it’s cyclical.
Mineral wealth
makes it happen
for the O people,
and the P people
are renowned for
their basket weaving.

No one ever--ever--
mentions Q.
The dictator names the city
after himself;
his name starts
with the letter R.
When the socialists
come to power
they spend a lot of time
painting over his face,
which is everywhere.
They don’t last.
Nobody lasts because
there’s always somebody else.
They all thought
they owned it
because they named it
and that was their undoing.
They should have
kept the place nameless.
They should have been glad
for their good fortune,
and left it at that.
X, Y, Z.
--Colson Whitehead
Apex Hides the Hurt