Tutankhamun Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Am I a disappointment?
I would hate to short-change my public.

Nonentity, nobody, groupie –
Are you hoping that my celebrity
Will transform you?

I am a single corridor away
Only a few steps down from the blazing light
Not too taxing, I hope?
I am the ultimate peep-show
The great un-dead
A cheap thrill.

Pagh! The stench of your sweat
The fungus of your breath
Lies heavy on me.

I am wearing my golden mask
But where is my black resin scarab?
My gold hands holding painted crook and flail?
My golden ba-bird? Serpent amulet?
My falcon collar?
Where is my dagger? My beadwork?
My finger rings? My bracelet with the rich cornelian swallow?
Where are my woven sandals? My linen headdress?

Before my door was forced
My dreams were fragrant.
Carriages I had
And the love of queens.

Now they have peeled and cracked my fragile world
Like rotten fruit.
Once slaves bowed down like wheat.
Men rose and fell like dust, at my command.
Now, I am the dust.
The sands of time, lap lapping at my feet