Simpering, clay fetish-faces counting
through the turnstile.
This sarcophagus contained the body
of Uresh-Nai, priestess to the goddess Mut,
Mother of All—
Run your finger against this edge!
—here went the chisel!—and think
of an arrogance endured six thousand years
without a flaw!
But love is an oil to embalm the body.
Love is a packet of spices, a strong
smelling liquid to be squirted into
the thigh. No?
Love rubbed on a bald head will make
hair—and after? Love is
a lice comber!
Gnats on dung!
“The chisel is in your hand, the block
is before you, cut as I shall dictate:
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