In the sands of silence, the living ones split, endlessly.
They're waterborne, broken and torn, limbs flooding forth
until the river runs red again. A tug of blood in the undertow
as the fevered arms and distress alarms rise from below,
grasping for their sisters, their wives, their lives -
for the daughter of the overarching skies.
Caught in the water, Isis knows the cries of the orphan,
the widow spider. She can reconstruct the faces of the dead
as they suck and well round her feet like collapsible gods.
It is said that when the rains come, she sweeps the grain
to the brute mouths of the deepworld, the bowels
clamouring between