by JP Davies
We are not like the Egyptians.
No treasure to guard
the ghost of his infant tongue.
No half-sun, half-moon
casket lock
ensuring safe passage,
or incantation
to suck back breath
through the bright cracks
of his dead-air tomb,
reeking of the underworld.
Son,
cross-boned,
hold them in music
loosed in brilliant flurry.
Parted lips rust,
mouth glints gold.
Published in The Stony Thursday Book