Djed-Khons-Iwef-Ankh
© 2006 Devon Koren

I confess, when I first glimpsed your
swaddled feet, tamarisk casket a
hammered puzzle of old doors, I was
terrified -- I wasn't expecting you,
exposed and vulnerable, this mere
inch of glass the only barrier between
my living breath and your after-
death. The scent of molded wood,
decayed papyrus, dust and sand your
body will never come home to, a
thousand rivers away from the
Nile's watering jowl.

Oh Djed, pillar of stability,
backbone of Osiris -- you have
hidden your life, god of moon,
within your name, not your face.
Unwrapped, twenty-two years
stretched, sunken like an old man
in your skin. Eyes uncovered by stones,
lids visible -- the crook of your nose,
raveled -- torn linen crumpled about your
delicate skull, open to the world,
oh priest and scribe of ancient Thebes,
like your grandfathers before you.

Beside you, on my knees -- your
vivid sarcophagus chronicle in this
language of eyes and birds.
Fractured your right leg to fit this
tomb of gods and pillaged talismans,
stone heart scarab cradled at your breast --
lungs, liver, kidneys all perfect sachets
beneath the ribcage, a prominent
schlong of sawdust fashioned at the hips.
Egyptian Christmas gift, worn away in
spiraled, onion layers by
curious curator fingers.