This is a love poem— when I look up from sorting thru my notes on the correspondence of 1933, dead poet to dead poet— when I look up and see my post card of golden Selket with little breasts belly graceful hips and her arms out to protect the inner organs of Tutankhamen, tho there’s a scorpion on her head, her calmness and her open palms more like acceptance than defense— when I look up from my work and see goddess Selket beautiful I think of you.
21 January 1980