Beloved,
what you do not know
what you will never know
what you cannot know
because you are dead
is the day that monster
severed your head
my throat was cut.
Beloved,
my blood flooded the Nile
until it swelled red
overflowing its banks
deluging the land in gore.
Crocodiles roared in anguish.
Bastet cast aside her cobra crown.
I waded into the wicked waters
praying I would drown.
Beloved,
the jackal bitch who took your head
smirked as she gutted you,
but the worst thing
was the way she
slipped your signet ring
on her vile finger
and filled your skull
with her secret sins
until your fiery eyes grew
flat and dead like tar.
Beloved,
The Nile may weep blood
for a thousand years
but crimson tears cannot wash clean
the grief I knew when I saw
my shorn husband’s head
held aloft by a demon whore.
Scribe Ani,
write this truth
in your Book of the Dead:
When I found Osiris’s hands
buried in the bloody mud,
It was I who became
an amputee.
Burlesque Press 