Tutankhamen was
Still alive when his tomb was
Built with hid gold walls.

From birth, Death shone stead-
fast as the sun, dimly lit
On his horizon;

On his horizon
Death waited, a light slight, but
Each year burned brighter,

Though it never reached
Within his tomb deep to glint
Across his gold keep.

Inside, a black stone
Senet game-set sat like a
Dead and loyal dog,

While god Anubis
Dreamt, ears perked, ever-alert
For his Master’s step,

And Mehet-Weret
Bear as pair the cot for Tut
They’ll helm toward rebirth.

At night, I write from
My bed, the walls foiled with gold
And silver mirrors

That do not gleam in
The dark. Sometimes, though, some thoughts
Cascade across like

Hieroglyph flashes,
Tessellating from neurons
To fingers to typed

Words which shine as beams
Of light (thought) from my phone. They
Quiver so quickly

Across this glistened
Bedroom, giving me the same
Chill as King Tut’s tomb.

I catch what I can
And accept the magnitudes
Of that which I can’t.

I am young, but much
Older than Tut was when he
Died. Is he still a

Teen, immortally
Cruising through the afterlife?
Was his death the key?

What was the sequence:
Enter dead, linens wrapped, then
Walk outside anew?

Or did he become
So light that he hovered up
Like a paper kite

To Aaru’s lush fields?
His kite pulls my brain into
A string; I feel light.

I float into the
Tomb’s entrance like a patient
Corpse. Deafened, silent

Inside: the cold air
Quells sound with a hermetic
Calm I’ve never known.

Inside, a chari-
ot, steeds, cold gold for drinking:
Endless opulence

Around our small selves,
Ready for when we will a-
waken eternal.

© 2025 Calder Kusmierski Singer