Isis and Osiris

In dim memory, the bright glow
of the candles made the room
a tomb of Egyptian treasures
with Pharaoh presiding
over the afterlife, his head cradled
upon the breast of Isis in her
reverie; a game of jackals at best.

Yet, my heart, always too tender,
my mother said, could not abandon
him. as we lay wrapped against the
cold, juxtaposed white on the dark
leather of the couch; a bench in a museum.

Beautiful bright and silver dreams
spread their wings upon walls.
Frames of moments past,
some of copper, some of brass
others fine and feathered.
things of a lifetime gathered lovingly
and hung with quiet reverence.
They thought they knew him.

Much weighed upon the scales
of Pharaoh 's heavy heart.
Anubis had buried his
curse deep within Pharaoh’s
alabaster skin. Words, I feared,
might tip the delicate balance
of Pharaoh’s papyrus grasp.
Wasted ink; The Book of the Dead
lay open like a hope upon the black
and glass table. Amber flame
spilled light upon its pages,
wavered like Pharaoh
in my arms, asleep at last.



(II)

Grace, her hand with held, muttered
apologies and mumbled help,
fumbled us careful close a last time.
in the darkness before all things
would in memory begin the ending.

A down comforter seemed a sin against
the cold night that bore our bodies
witness against the shadow of the lamp;
Nagasaki etchings into walls.
The end of beginnings isn’t always an end
I whispered against your heart willing you
not to leave me in this cacophony
of expectant silence; hush of hospital halls.

The Ave Maria’s were crows hanging
upon a fence gathered, like dirge notes,
Ave Maria,
gratia plena . . .
gratia plena . . .
I would not be there to see you again
would not let them speculate how
we once lay tangled in white sheets
Isis and Osiris on a winter’s night.

The white of the billboard broke
the clean line of the horizon.
He will be missed. Raised
above green grass, asphalt
yellow lines. My heart a
red stop sign in traffic on a
Tuesday afternoon lunch break.

(III)

Open casket. Visitation begins at 6PM.
Newspaper crumpled in the front seat
where roses lay, peach tipped white,
like the ones he sent for my birthday
a year ago. Is this what you bring to
the land of the dead? Reminders of
your life for them to peruse and curse

Or perhaps bless like this letter
a last offering to the boy who
wept like a child,
I don’t want to die
I don’t want to
say anything to anyone as we
sit cold marble against cheek.

Strain of ears against stone
at twilight for your resonance
telling me of flying machines
jungles I have not seen
until at last I must concede
I will not hear its like again.

(In memory of Ken Spano)