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HENUT IN THE BRIDAL SALON
Lacquered Henut, her hair
the color of goldfish,
stands in her underclothes.
What weight she has rests
on her left leg, the left hip
slightly raised, the right knee
bent and right heel an inch
from the carpet. She lifts
her arms, and the women
wind her in lake-blue silk.
Their lips are tight with pins.
With french-horns and clarinets
I sit behind the mirror
in my pontiffs cope and crown.
My face hurts. It is
a hundred years old. Could
my mouth move, she would hear
her name whispered from the glass.
No, the silver shoes are
wrong, their heels too low;
the fingernails are far too short,
the lips too pale . . .
The scroll in my lap
is the blueprint of God's Only
Daughter. Having no voice,
I watch my hands
turn into hooks and guns.
An air of woodwind
stirs the salon curtains,
and Henut cries: Enough!
less out of pique than fear.
   
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