The Nut (that’s noot) hieroglyph on the ancient Egyptian coffin
before me is Sky, she who is the beyond goddess worshipped
before, her name ambiguously implicating me now in her cult.
That Sky. That’s me. What is my name doing on that coffin?
That Sky, that’s not me. That that is all the what that’s up there
while I am the infinitesimal bit of what that’s down here.
A fluke of spelling, a past quick decision toward simplicity,
hangs a heavy meaning yoke around my neck. I respond
like a dog to a high-pitched whistle. No one else notices.
Not just Nut pulls my chain with a confusing claim. Stores
galore, news stations, restaurants, gambling sites, you name it,
share my label. Sky is literally all around, both up above
and down below while my own Sky, no longer sees the light,
entombed by yet another choice, mine. Do I embrace it,
this mixed blessing double entendre, or do I slough off the taps–
peripheral perception transmuting into collateral resonance–
as irrelevant, inhabitants of meaning universes far removed
and supremely unrelated to my own? A shrug alone
makes sense, except in musings and in poems where I can
explore the cosmic significance of the coincidence my ancestors
most likely did not intentionally intend to ensnare. Smith.
