Counterbalance

A simurgh flies over a princess on a throne,
artist unknown, San Diego Museum of Art

The upright feather waits for the dark heart to be
placed in the bright pan, waits for a finger of truth
(pointing, veering) to assess which side outweighs
the other. A dog-faced god sees to the procedure.
The lion-headed goddess fidgets, waiting to see if
she’ll get to devour the soul of the heavy-hearted.

Somehow I found myself in that place, this theater,
not sure whether I’m a witness to or the subject of
today’s weighing-in. No matter. A nod of respect to
the divinities, their roles: then I pull a scarlet velvet
cape out of thin air, snap it like a gym towel, swirl it
around my shoulders. This goes unremarked by all.

I fish a peacock feather out from a secret side pocket,
hoisting it high overhead, yelling “GERONIMO!” and
“COME AND TAKE IT!” Anubis slips a sidelong glance
at me as the pans sway up and down: the seesaw of
immortal life, or the end of a soul. Ammit growls low
at me. I wave the peacock feather like a semaphore,

a marshall on the ground guiding through approach
something very much larger than the ancients here.
That something lifts the spangled bowl of heaven up,
up, high enough so when I jump on the scale pans to
springboard upward, the peacock feather becomes a
simurgh, clasping me lightly in its talons: we're away.