| Mummy Velvet Donald R. Anderson |
“It’s the mummy velvet,”
she said,
“that makes the mummy covet.”
Her love was beyond spiritual.
When you live to be 2029 years old
and you get tired of loving the living,
you love the dead.
Call it a fetish for beyond the flesh.
His eyes were gone,
had been for hundreds of years,
yet his teeth were still good as new.
Hair like fur, though long and stiff,
trembled in the moonlight under
the places only owls saw.
Cliffs strewn with old twigs,
yearning for sapling promises
on a drought since the plague.
Tenderly she embraced herself to
his bones for him,
taking what solace and satisfaction
she could from the cold bone.
He loved her once,
she will love him again,
on the shores of Egypt,
her face prowls the carved stone.
She refuses to be alone.
she said,
“that makes the mummy covet.”
Her love was beyond spiritual.
When you live to be 2029 years old
and you get tired of loving the living,
you love the dead.
Call it a fetish for beyond the flesh.
His eyes were gone,
had been for hundreds of years,
yet his teeth were still good as new.
Hair like fur, though long and stiff,
trembled in the moonlight under
the places only owls saw.
Cliffs strewn with old twigs,
yearning for sapling promises
on a drought since the plague.
Tenderly she embraced herself to
his bones for him,
taking what solace and satisfaction
she could from the cold bone.
He loved her once,
she will love him again,
on the shores of Egypt,
her face prowls the carved stone.
She refuses to be alone.
