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Now reading
Hatshepsut’s Beard
Early days after mourning her father
it sat in its purple-stained case
above the baby in his cradle
looking more like an amputated horn
or a bladeless dagger
than a ritual mark of manhood
so small in her long-fingered hand so graceless
It stuck on without fuss
a glue of fermented grain
that dried clear even soothed the skin
She started wearing it nightly alone with the baby
and for his part the tiny prince loved
to reach up and swat at it
giggling and rolling his eyes to follow
And so at least when she’d worked up the nerve
to wear it into the throne room
the infant in her arms
thought nothing of it
She claimed his calm
as her first sign of divine right
Advisors couldn’t argue
with the future king
this baby who could separate
the two beings in the body
one without a beard
who cuddled, coddled, and cooed
and one with the gold-banded cylinder on the chin
who clutched him close to her chest
where he dozed
against the growl behind her sternum
the rocking
of her shoulders
as she flung one arm wide a finger
and a parallel chin pointing where the workers
carved her likeness
with long eyelashes small breasts
no hint of glue on high cheeks or jaw