The cream colored wraps that bind them
Look as if the fibers will tear:
Thin onion sheets to give way at any given moment
And the raisin contents inside will shrivel and glisten in the light.
Puckered like disease and leather,
Once functioning bodies
Now hug their knees in brine.
I am too wrapped in thick papyrus or cotton,
A peel that mimics theirs.
My sinews look tired and vacuumed.
I mirror the sad wretched state of dehydration.
Vinegar and relief scuttle like Kafka beetles
Under my cloth.
Deflation rather than release from my own broad layer,
The strangled air is sucking oxygen for dearth.
I turn and show myself to them,
The onion raisin men with eyes of oily shells.
They cannot raise their heads from between their legs
Or from their chests.
But I give alló
Worn through the fragile paper never meant for a lion
And impress the dead with cigarette fingers and an exhale.
But they are the color of cream and I don't want my rosy cheeks no more.