Little Wife

At the Oriental Institute, Chicago They redid King Tut splendid, once stone-huge as this yet his wife’s feet tiny, the only thing of her now low, next to him. A few toes, some of the rest, a bit of ankle, that’s it in the shade of her husband’s looming, massive looking straight ahead into the future where we live and can’t eye-to-eye, where to stare at him is to suffer warbler neck, head back and up à la the high just-leafing-out trees as bright bits wing their blink and hide. Little wife, such small feet, the thought dwarfs the king as ache, as what is ever left of us and oh, I like her better.