A poem
Ruby red tea thick with sugar
served hot on the train from Luxor to Cairo
in little hourglass-shaped cups.
Men grasp their middles and sip,
others gulp down the sweet tonic between
their thick moustaches and thicker chins.
No, I think, but not out loud:
La my guidebook informs means, “No” in Arabic.
When he grabs for my waist
in a lonesome corner
of the Egyptian Museum
I want to scream, “La!” but
my voice comes out like that syrupy beverage:
soothing, laughing, keeping me safe.
Again, he follows me past empty tombs,
long neglected statuaries
–indecipherable hieroglyphs.
Only the eyes of Horus follow us,
witness to my trial and humiliation.
Me, the fragrant bouquet of lilies,
luscious and for the taking,
spilling pollen tears in danger
of being crushed
between ancient stones.
Why must also these bodies
even in death after ten thousand years,
still be the object of men’s interest?
Torn from their sacred rest, to be
fingered — manhandled
X-rayed and put on display?
I want to say, Not Me!
But I am also here to og…
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