She Rode a Gold Chariot with Lions into My Life

I’m a great storyteller, I’m told. My favorite one a tale
of Goddess Isis, who’s holding my hand even now,
a treasure of good looks wherever I go. It’s said that
she has an ethereal air, an intoxicating Egyptian color,
pearl-tipped braids, a body cooled by dancing cobras.
She’s that hot. Knows it. Tonight we’re on Broadway
on an after-theater date. Our dinner nook is starlit,
candles, a roses centerpiece. This one gentleman, almost
curtseying in our aisle, is beyond charmed. He adores
my ladylove—her V’ed fuchsia vest, the decorative wrap,
what’s barely hidden. I can read his mind. He’d need

a libation to cool off, a bed with ivory tusks, drums to
beat out a Djembe rhythm. He doesn’t know the half of it.
How my Isis, on a cloud of coral-red dust, arrived in my
master’s suite. She rode a jeweled 2-wheel chariot pulled
by lions into my life. Did my Beelzebub antique mirror
(with its French oval-gilded frame), birth a spell? My Goddess
was elegant—ornate, bells ringing, the most ravishing
woman I’d ever seen. She asked about my TV, iPod, cell
phone. We’d play tag, to, fro, me juggling a hundred needto-
know questions for her to catch. She bared her breasts.
Day after day, I’d overheat beside her. I suckled her lacquered
toes. By year’s end, she swore she wanted to stay in my world.

After all, she said, in her Temple I wouldn’t know how to bow,
ride an elephant, or handle a saber. On my side she’d be
unforgettable (for sure), a seductress, worth her price in gold.
I didn’t doubt that. But I worried about my age, high blood
pressure, diabetes. What if, in this flamboyant city, she
suddenly found a wealthy libertine, some 21st-century Don
Juan? And what if I was abandoned on her side of the
mirror with those ox-carts, bales of hay, dung, never-do-well
peasants? Or maybe, have to endure the ungodly elite—
with their curious stares, costumes, arcaded galleries, medieval
wars, beheadings? Left alone without my Temptress, her
beauty and voodooish love-making, could I ever dial home?

—Isaac Black