my grandmother told me stories
of sleeping in the desert,
of scarabs that climbed across her skin as she dreamt,
carving and counting the lines around her eyes,
the spindly wrinkles of her sagging skin.
she said they scuttled away right before dawn,
eager to bring the sun,
but she could feel the scuttle of wings
unfolding, folding,
scraping against one another as they inspected
how many years she’d lived.
Khepri,
she said,
grew the sun like a blossom
over hills of sand,
and carved its light like a man
grinds statues from stone,
twists ingots of gold into rays,
draws water from the river.
he drew the light in with his scarab arms,
and poured through the air like a song,
she said,
like priests praying to Ra,
solemn-faced and cat eyed,
though Khepri brought the dawn.
sometimes, dawn wavered,
though Ra was never weak.
Khepri’s muscles uncoiled like a snake,
and rolled the sun across the sky
like a dream unfolding
on the back of an insect.
she was old, then,
and chipped and cracked
as a dusty statue.
she said the sun warmed her bones
but the nights were cold as death,
warmed only by the scarab legs
skittering across her face.
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