To her right, a stone 

To her left, a pigeon inflight, 

A Giza pyramid horizon behind, 

Arms crossed, ankles crossed,

She's blocked off and guarded, 

All black under an ancient sun

Beating down, desert dunes surround 

The quiet heartbreaking clicking of 

Her rib against a solid gold heart, 

Beloved and wretched, outcast

And solitary in stance, no more

Feigned, “it’s okay,” pretence, 

She’s thirty now, standing,

Planting roots, grounded, 

Channeling and funnelling energy 

On the other side of that 

Earthy continent, open, 

Livewire, lightning keyed jar, 

She could place a firm palm 

On her pyramid womb, 

Massage the centre of her 

Forehead, finger the silver 

Isis pendant necklace

Glinting in that Egypt sun, 

What a crow craves,

A family of pigeons lift up

Angle towards open mouthed 

Camel caravans, Bedouin dune smiles, 

Bared-teeth watchers,

Tourists vandalizing the 

Tired backs of hip-boned, 

Over-worked horses, 

One lays oddly a kilter, 

Slowly decaying under 

That Egypt sun, 

Stray dogs sleep under 

Parked cars, 

Her thirty self wants to uncross 

Her arms and lay down beside 

The dying horse humanity 

Has entombed, 

Graves, honeycombed grid

And remarking, 

“They wanted this, to be

Buried here, it was an honour

To die here, to lay here, 

Building pyramids,” she sighs, 

Tries to tell him she 

Doesn't want to die 

Building someone else’s pyramids. 

Between, 

She sees later the 

Beautiful buffalo medicine totem, 

Synergy, 

Between a rock and a soft space, 

A Giza pyramid horizon behind.