June 30, 1991

You, Isis, upon hearing Osiris was betrayed
and made to lie in a chest of art, sealed, cast
spiritless into the swollen brown Nile, carried
along to its Tanaitic mouths, cut off your black

Hair endless in grief, set out alone. In the length
of your ardor, you traced his path, reached the town
of the papyrus twin where the sea had placed him
gently within the branches of a tamarisk whose trunk

Encircled him in safety. In time, the tamarisk grew massive— beloved by Queen Astarte, felled as a pillar for her roof. You, Isis, soon learned the tree was cut, entranced royal maidens with your sweet odor.

Let you nurse Astarte’s son, you bestowed Fragrance
on their hair. Each night you gave the squalling babe—
not breast— yet finger for suckle until milk-drunk sleep overtook. You cast the child into flame. You, Isis, who would protect his limbs, spoke mighty words,

Turned into a swallow floated, dived, moaned. One night Astarte found her jeweler— child on fire, cried deprived him of life everlasting. Even so, you, Isis told Astarte
your story, begged for the pillar, received it gladly.

Having cut it open, you took out your husband’s body, departed for Egypt, bore it over sea and the falling
Nile, arrived, hid the chest,
abandoned death.