Prop me up!
Push up into the depths of my skin
and heave me out, cracking bone
and searing sinew you press on,
I am carried.
Like a king on a litter I lounge,
my bandages coarse and binding,
their mottled linen damp with claret
I am to be buried in this
heavenly pose.
I can see the ethereal,
at tunnel’s end it shines
while muted chanting begins to subside,
a sect of idolatry praying to their god
that bountiful harvests
might be brought forth.