To the Field Of Reeds
by Kate Foley
The heart is measured in a scale against the feather of truth
in the Egyptian Book of the Dead
42 gods waiting,
a placard held up,
one for each sin.
My heart, fat, elderly, shabby,
surely deserves some credit for keeping on
keeping on?
Over there the Field of Reeds.
My heart gives a little shall-I-make-it? skip.
Your feather trembles. Ever since I said I’m a liar
and a coward and you said ‘yes, but I love you’
I’ve borrowed your compass.
Now that 42 pairs of eyes
are sizing up my canopic heart,
measuring the equilibrium of the scales,
I need it.
OK, OK, myth and procrastination.
You know and I know the Field of Reeds
is nothing more or less
than a Sunday morning in our bed
while we can. But lend me your feather
and I’ll look very hard for my own.
One feather on each side
trimmed and steady
as she goes.