sonnet in which you, howard carter, unbury me

 

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.