a poem by Thea Robin Engst
slaves. How else are we supposed to get
through the day? We pile them on like ten ton
bricks, slide them through scanners like planks
in desert sand. They escorted him through
his Death Walk to the Afterlife, is someone waiting
for us with a scroll of receipts on papyrus?
The child-king can only give advice now.
When I wanted change I made it. When I left
one name for the next I meant it.
The people who erased him sparked no kind
of interest in me as I stood before
the gilded tomb museumed in Atlanta. Gold
was the flesh of the gods, so when pharaohs left
this world they wore it to the next.
But I want to leave lighter, with ash wings, like moths.