Melt into his joy,
like a fruit in his mouth,

bear his name
not as a near-misfortune

but as the future
your own small self

has awaited.
Swaddled for worship,

become the promise
of wings that took

an oath of staying
affixed to a mummy;

your bone-cage,
supple enough for liberty,

will suffer idolatry
at his hands,

while his thought
is there to unpeel you,

like a rare fruit,
layer by layer,

until you wither into
a semblance of yourself,

Egypt’s phantom.