Joy Yourcenar

Obeisance in the Time of Plague

After you have translated all
his poetic mysteries into hieroglyphics,
crush your fragment of the Rosetta stone
and scatter the militant shards
on the Nile’s receded bank.
The time for fertility has passed.
Take the flail and ankh
from his twisted teak hands,
remembering the bird-like beauty
of his slender fingers,
rim-lit by moonlight.
Trace the filigree of sores, bas-relief,
kiss the hardened forehead where canker
and cantankerous coexisted;
why should a pharaoh be more politic, less than
regal, in this dying?
Prepare one tomb for them to share,
one pillow, scented with sandalwood and hashish;
offer love, the last obeisance, in this time of plague.
Send your prince to Osiris
with Hasan’s kiss sealing
the papyrus of his desiccated lips.
Then,
        flee Egypt.
The Angel of Death has set fire to the desert sand.

Cher

Under the golden pinkish glow of marmalade skies,
sits the bi-polar boy with the icon eyes,

big shouldered like his brawling city
sits salaam on the honeyfoam hospital rug

eating dumplings, chopstick perfect form,

almost a perfect ten
(the British judge gives a nine point eight,
they always underscore). The point?

You want to hang the Cher

with a decadence of cherries,

garland him with lithe fruit and petite sprigs of laurel,
your mounded red globes accentuating

subtleties of green framed earlobes;
sassy stems hung thus and so, lush,
dangling from cherish like your last kid
Kate Bush, unrepentant in the dance, red shoes.

Side Effect

After all my hair fell out,
I threw it against the disrespect
of a perfect August sky
and watched it float down,
mild as milkweed.
Discovering vanity,
I bought a long, sexy auburn wig.

You made me wear it to bed.

Joy Olivia Yourcenar writes: I am a poet,teacher, mother, technical writer and spoken word DJ presently living in Halifax, Nova Scotia. If I am writing, the door of my bedroom is closed and there is a sign on it that reads, "Before you knock, ask yourself, 'Am I on fire? Am I bleeding?' If the answer to both of these questions is no, DON'T KNOCK!" My children, amazingly enough, are both young writers. I collaborate with Eric Boutilier-Brown, my muse and life-partner, on visual poetry website, icon/graphy, that combines my imagery with his photographic images. There is more poetry on my website, Mythologies . The best way to get to know me is through my poetry.