• sonnet in which you, howard carter, unbury me

    Touchstones: UVU's Journal for Literature and Art — 1st Place Poetry Fall 2022


    your finger catches, pulling on my brown strands.

    my hair knows not all unearthings are resurrections,

    there is greater sacrilege than rot. like any good

    explorer, your hands slip under my hem, pry the violet

    cotton and my tag, your nails a candle between

    the cartouche and door frame. after enough times

    asking, any body would unearth itself to please you.

    god is sleeping below the skyline, and your scalpels

    cut tissue deep—so many organs to dissect, display,

    catalog, each particle of dust a victory as they land

    on the lazuli framing the corpse’s eye. press your nose

    to the glass, see how i freeze into taxidermy.


    my eyes don't meet yours. can you see anything?

    you slip off my boxers. yes, wonderful things.