Horus the elder.
Haroeris.
The wrongest kind of Southern California day.
Rain! No Sun in the sunrise.
No Sun for his right eye.
No Sun for the Lord of the Horizon.
Today, a Celtic-seeming land enshrouded in mist and fog
In August.
Did I do this?
Is this because I refuse to get up to
Greet the dawn?
I put out my statues the night before so they will
Catch the morning rays that I miss.
I burn Copal and offer honey and nuts.
A couple days before
I traveled to Egypt,
I injured my
Left eye so badly that I was
Temporarily blinded and had to walk around with an
Eye patch.
Does this mean I’m more of a Set person?
Or a Horus redeemed?
A weird, family battle sort of a day.
I try to make it up with my son.
His hair is so blond, so golden.
A white owl flies silently
Into the Moon as I
Argue outside with my husband.
Horus is to me the hawk that flew just over my shoulder,
Grazing me with feather-tips in
Griffith Park that time I was
Spontaneously awakened.
Horus was that downed hawk
I pulled off the freeway with the utmost calm.
I severed the wings from the body and
Buried the rest.
A friend coached me on nailing the wings to a board
To hold the shape
(This was in Oregon).
And I salted and salted my prize all Winter
In a dark, damp shed.
Horus is, perhaps, the unofficial deity of
This California scrub.
Hawks are ubiquitous here.
There’s nowhere they are not.
I’m never not aware of them.
I haven’t seen one lately though.
They say these Intercalary days are unlucky.
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