| tyet-knot of isis |
[10 Apr 2006|10:12pm] |
Only her Fire covered my head,
That is to say, my ebony wooded-head
Nailed down, chilly as my own Underworld.
The sun had Set on my time with her, I thought,
When my brother of Darkness settled his will
For me, that wooden chest inside wooded plant.
But motherhood! Oh! Never left me, my Isis
She took to papaya ship
Past crocodiles, impediments,
Unfit for my Fire, my Ardor, my Lady
Shining finally before me today with a throne
On her head, after all these years, dear Horus.
The God of the dead cannot die today,
For my Fire has gone looking and has found
And when I was in fourteen pieces,
She found all thirteen and made the last,
I stroked my beard when the time came,
and you, Horus, you Set the sun back again.
So my Lady Isis, now you have made yourself in Giza
A brick-lined pyramid, temple to your good heart,
A place where you might see me often,
Sister--sister, wife, and mother to me again
Maybe we can live in peace without Setting
Red clouds of rage.
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[22 Feb 2006|11:35pm] |
It’s barely furnished; dull and dusty,
Floor boards shaped like string beans
Only serving the purpose of guidance
To point me straight at her glinty figure--
Balm-skinned and half-covered by curtain.
My upturned thumb erases it--
So half-covered becomes full-glint-balm--
As I notice her, teapot in a hand like a trapeze,
Courting the canary-eyelet tablecloth like a host
To no one but the cream, sugar, and china teacups.
It’s a scene unfamiliar to my full, chaotic belly--
Her shadow-puppet gestures to an invisible company,
And her grace falling over her and the table itself
In a ruse to keep something, someone, entertained,
Somewhere outside of nearly-paid rent and mildew ceilings.
And so she purses her drawn-on lips and feigns amusement,
Crossing her legs over a rippling flowered apron,
Cocking and bobbing and flipping the hair on her mousy head,
As she stirs whipping cream in a ceramic pitcher,
Bending over to drip it in the opposing teacup, with a smile.
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april__fool's journal
