To An
Egyptian Working Man
We met in Toronto. I’m the woman
who couldn’t keep her eyes off you, stood
stock still as the crowd peeled past.
Embarrassed, I took your photograph.
My husband wandered off, used to my ways.
He’s been really good about it all.
I talk about you often, have your photo
propped on the mantel clock.
He gives me a look now and then, but
doesn’t comment.
Probably feels safe, with you being
on another continent.
But something did happen…
You looked so vulnerable, vacant,
slack-mouthed and dreaming.
Dreaming of eyes? Of painted hands, of
perfumes that teased
the weaver, in the workshop of the temple
of the King?
They’ve placed a square of lint across your
groin.
I saw the x ray, fluorescent with hunger,
infection.
Learned of parasites that stole your
strength.
Were you handsome once?
Did the palace women ever notice the
weaver?
Or were you, even then, a guess at a man.
Spent twigs, bound with dirty cracked
leather?
One floor up, your starched, ironed shroud
stands outstretched. A mottle-brown moth.
They’ve placed three saucers by your side:
Heart of Nakht, Liver of Nakht – each a child’s fist of hollow wood –
torn from the tree where you crouched to
chew bread.
Brain of Nakht – two dapple black stones – plucked from the beach,
beneath the cliffs that you sucked you dry.
Your dignity label was missing,
The one marked: Private.
Denise Howie World Famous in B.C.
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