Queen Puabi of Mesopotania

Torn from weeping parents in distant villages
Pubescent children cluster, a bouquet of buds
Collected to entertain the Mother Queen. Singing and Dancing, glowing
As They charm her, the children tumble and shout
Each sommersault higher
They exult then fear Her pledge to carry them to the castles
Only the dead can see. A brighter sun, a bigger moon will
Wash the mosaic floors. They will sip joy from carved cups
To become birds shimmering in fluid colors to sing, fly
Swoop and soar landing at her feet. Only for Her; Only for Her.

Four thousand years later diggers pull her
From the Royal Cemetery of Ur.
Queen Puabi, barely intact, lies among her attendants-
Two hundred dispatched by a sharp blow to the head.
Gleaming, her crown lies close by: eight gold pounds
Sprawled in thousands of jeweled beads.

In eternal waxed adoration dried and preserved, retainers wait:
Department store dummies for placement
In tableaux: splendid rituals of worship, celebration, banquets
For her eyes alone. For her eyes alone.
From their silks, fine woolens, and pleated linens, nothing remains.
All past is past, all glory ephemeral. Dusty thoughts hover, haunting the sweaty diggers.
So fades much for dancing time, for the beyond the beyond,
For the glowing afterworld.

Through the buzz of flies and clink of trowels
A thin, sweet, imperious voice echoes.
“I am everything. The minions are nothing.
I reign forever; bend your knees. I am the Queen;
You are dust.”
At her feet a silver goat pulls jeweled leaves hanging from a golden tree.


--by Gloria Gerritz