Myrrh, lotus, and honey:
Egyptian mummification musk.
On the shelf, a mushy hippocampus
is the lone vestige of Hatshepsut, the
ancient pharaoh Queen, stored in a jar
like the ones we use to entrap
the frenetic pieces of our souls-
fireflies, momma calls them. As dusk
approaches, I present to her an offering
from the glow of my cupped hands, wondering
where her soul has gotten to.
It is nothing more than
mulberry jam and my mother’s perfume.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem