It’s reverse mummification. She put my brain back in first, then my heart, and my lungs, then all of the essentials in sequential. Consequently, I began to think again, to love, and breathe, and fill myself once more with life. Slowly she unraveled the bandages that had bound my aggrievances and grievous insecurities. I was administered to with purpose, poise, and passion. I was looked upon and told, ‘These are not wounds, these are birthrights, birthmarks, and merits. They will be seen and gleam. Each one a story told in discreet cellular makeup.’ I was not exonerated but exhumed.
Finally found a rhythm and she pushes me off, curls up and goes dark. Still hard, I say, what? limply, shocked not confused. She mutters, ‘doesn’t matter,’ but it does. I am sticky now and absent from two spaces, unable to move forward. When I touch her it’s wrong, like sanding marble, bringing out the finish. I say okay without question and lay back into silence, sarcophagus pose. Pictured from the ceiling down, I see us in tableaux and want to carve it into something, a relief, though nothing ever tuns out as I see it in my mind.
A Few Short Words 