The Ibis, in Egypt, was not a bird,
he was Thoth, the god in the pyramid
with my heart in his scimitar beak.
We are not just star dust, but dust
from burst galaxies. Deny me a bird
won’t judge my heart on a silver scale,
against a feather plucked from its wing.
There was a scratch in the blue dresser
from your sweet aviary of a childhood.
The scratch was a tiny, strutting Ibis.
I spotted the Ibis many eclipses ago.
A little Ibis on the shores of the Nile.
Do not judge or curse, my meaty heart
broke Egypt’s quantum scale. I walked
a blue shoreline, hoping for a Phoenix.
We left our suits on round rocks,
waded to our knees, dipped hands
in the mud, and laughed. I slid a finger
to your breast. You blazed a handprint.
I dressed you with the hot, silky mud;
you adorned my back. We stumbled
to the shore and loved like crocodiles,
grappling. When we awoke, the sun
lost in the volcano, an anole lizard
glared from a palm frond, slut-eyed
and silent. The mud had dried on our
young bodies, and cracked like eggshell
I have flown waving a plastic, broken heart,
sung in a broken baritone: bright, algorithmic
words; laughed where love languished; my faith
squealed at the state line of love. I remember
like a vampire. I found lukewarm blood percolating
in the cities, and with gold venom, fixed a lonely
corpse. She told me her dream of a nice night,
and completely forgot I wasn’t there. I wasn’t.
A man like me is the one who ought to die.