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sunborn son

with lion head and linen red, her blood runs hot, her clothes run thin. her rosettes are rosetta. her skin is her skin. she carries the snake and vulture. hers is a catabolic culture. her seven hundred statues and the rite of every day reveal the level of the reverence her supplicants swore when she held sway.

mighty one, violent sun, scarlet lady of flame: unlike some, she’s kept her name–kept it, like her mane, by daring any man to take it from her. and don’t doubt, some have tried, but so far she’s held her pride against all comers.

the one who came the closest wasn’t purposeful or proud; he was half in another world when she picked him from the crowd. her grudge against him goes back to the story of the slaughter. she was a dutiful daughter, and when the sun said strike them down, she shed her shafts of fire on tower, and on temple, and on town. she delighted in destruction: her life was dealing death. the burning desert winds were born out of her breath. body bright as midday light, she stalked the fields of battle, shaking spear and sicklesword like her softer sisters shook their sistrum rattles.

then Ra saw humanity–in whole–was risked by her far-ra[n]ging wrath. he conjured this confounding crux and set it in her path: seven thousand jars of claret poured out on the ground, pooling in a puddle three palms deep.

Sekhmet saw this sanguine spill and, thrall to thirst, she bent her head and drank long draughts, lapped up every drop. licking her lips, she stood, shook her shining head . . . then stumbled, cursed, and sat. her strident staring stopped. drunken drowsy–not on blood, but ochred beer–she curled in upon herself and slipped into a sleep.

slowly came the city’s sacred servants, kneeling near. they lay a burning censer by her head, murmuring low vowels from within their sandy cowls. the lioness stirred, sniffing at the smoke, and under their averted eyes, her secret self awoke: honey-hearted Hathor, sensuous and sweet. she fluttered long eyelashes, floated to her feet.

“music. dance. drink. a festival. and fires!” these blooms arose around her as she gave each one her voice. all those who lived were called and came, and past sunset into night these remnants became revelers, celebrants and choirs. the rescued ones rejoiced.

wine flowed, drums beat; the gentle goddess lounged, and laughed, . . . and lusted. she danced into the crowd; all arched back and flexing thigh, she draped herself against the man who had the most delighted eye. she took him half by force, the rest by truths she’d always trusted. she moved there under moonlight until, deep within, she felt the soul-sustaining sunrise breaking on eternal in-turned veldt.

but the sun was touching this external temple’s garden, too, and as dawn fell on her rapturous face a lion’s eyes came roaring through. and he–who was already then no stranger to the strange–looked upon that visage and felt something in him change.

he saw her seeing in his eyes the dreaming of that day. stilling, skin still stark and steaming, she slowly stood and stalked away.

sobered, she despised it–not the action or reaction but the finding herself found. she’d expected it to be on her terms, on her ground. and she’d seen her northern sister made domesticat, turned to the trivial and tame, given a diminutive, diminishing name. she must now share the fate, she then believed. yet this was how you were conceived.

and she, who all her life had tolerated neither tie nor tether, grew as round as skies are blue. and in her time she birthed a knife of war and will and weather, and that was when, my Maahes, the shining sun met you.

you who are true beside her, you who see in front, you, my son, whose name sounds like it might say lion or law. you, the only one with whom she’ll share the hunt, her only art, you who hold her warrior’s hea[r]t and clasp, uncleaved, her claw.

i was not the one she would have chosen, fully herself. no gift could have made her forgive me for that. you were all i had to give. you were why she let me live.

Published inwithout center