The Copper That Was Not Good

Ea-nāṣir, you remember the shine you promised—fine
as sunrise hammered thin across new copper
yet what you sent has shamed my name within my house.
I crossed the dust of distant roads, I trusted your servant,
I paid in full before the ferry touched the river,
and carved my faith in trade upon this tablet.

Now let this clay remember what you hoped no tablet
would bear: the ingots dull as drought, not fine
but pitted, green with sickness from the river.
Is this the wealth you weigh and call good copper?
You sent me back through gates by the hand of a servant,
empty as a jar unsealed within my house.

In my house
there is no laughter for this bargain; the tablet
lies heavy as a stone no hand of servant
can lift from me with words of “It is fine.”
I know the ring and color of true copper;
this cargo reeks of mud drawn from the river.

By the river
I waited while your servant left my house
with promises bright as polished copper.
I pressed my seal into warm clay tablet
believing honor was the measure of fine
metal and men, yet you repay with anger.

Do not mistake my patience now for anger
alone; I have crossed the river
twice for trade I thought was fine.
Your gate was barred against me at your house;
your servant shrugged; I carried back the tablet
and opened crates of crumbling copper.

What am I to do with worthless copper?
Shall I hang it at my door in anger?
Shall I inscribe again upon a tablet
that merchants drown their word within the river?
I will not have deceit brought to my house
and named by you, with smiling mouth, as fine.

So hear me: my anger will stand in this house
until your servant brings by river-road fine copper,
and this tablet remembers you made it so, Ea-nāṣir, with copper.