Myrrh, lotus, and honey:
Egyptian mummification musk.
On the shelf, a mushy hypothalamus
is the lone remnant of Hatshepsut, the
ancient pharaoh Queen, stored in a jar
like the ones we use to entrap
the frenetic pieces of our souls-
fireflies, momma calls them. As dusk
approaches, I present to her an offering
from the glow of my cupped hands, wondering
where her soul has gotten to.
It is nothing more than
mulberry jam and my mother's perfume.