Though only a girl,
the first born of the Pharaoh,
I was the first to die.
Young then,
we were bored already,
rouged pink as oleanders
on the palace grounds, petted
by the eunuchs, overfed
from gem-encrusted bowls, barren
with wealth, until the hours of the afternoon
seemed to outÌast even
my grandmother s mummy, a perfect
little dried apricot
in a golden skin. We would paint
to pass the time, with delicate
brushes dipped in char
on clay, or on our own blank lids.
So ít was that day we found him
walling in the reeds, he seemed
a miracle to us, plucked
from the lotus by the ibis’ beak,
the squalling seed of the sacred
Niưe. He was permitted
as a toy; while I pretended play,
I honed him like a sword.
For him, Ï was as polished and as perfect
as a pebble in a stutterer s mouth.
While the sÏaves` fans beat
lncessantÌy as insect wings,
I taupht him how to hate
this painted Pharoah s tomb,
this palace built of brick
and dung, and gilded like a poets
tongue; these painted eyes
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