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.