Between the Paws of the Sphinx

I go alone,
after all diurnal diehards linger in last light
to hunker before Thutmos's looming stele,
hand crossed over my heart in greeting.

The guard who meets me— cross-legged
protector to this eternal realm— drops
personal history, leaves language and
family home to settle here every night—
hooded in dun desert garb for the cold—

among these speaking stones that rumble
too low for my reverberating ear to hear.

We have no language but gesture to
hold against interpretation of the other.
We sit in night certainty beyond concept.

Tell the truth, as it is. The guard’s eye
beams a dark intensely light. When I place
a curious incautious finger on his third eye,
I slip through his forehead into universe and
though my hand drops back, I fall into space
and reel.

Penn Kemp