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