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.