glowing occasionally in priestly vestments,
never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who’ll tell you
all roads narrow at the border.
You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,
and it can mean something.
but you can have the words forgive and forget
the dream of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.
at least for a while,
you can still summon the memory
your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.