Self-Made Mummy
How it happens --
walking along an icy ravine,
scarring the desert
from an airplane wreckage,
bowing, while mother and father
turn away,
and a boulder gleams
in a priest's hands.
Or, an execution in the marsh,
as flecks of snow scatter.
Each and all,
we are called,
to remain,
to parse only clues
in fingers, tongues,
strands of rope.
Each and all,
we recall
our last lost footing,
our last world, gone
Meg
Smith
Meg
Smith is a poet, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass.
Her poetry has appeared or has been accepted to The Cafe Review, Star*Line,
Illumen, Pudding, Dreams & Nightmares, and more.
Tags:
Poetry