Who made the urn
And was commissioned
To spin the pots?

Layers upon layers
Of wafer thin wires
Hiding in a body
Made of clay
In pottery

Are eviscerated
From the vessel
The shell

To be embalmed
In thick oils
That cascade
Like rich chocolate
Into the jars

When the brain
Is pulled out
And blood drained

They inset
The veins with fluids
Foreign to the body
Nondisposing the parts
Of the dead

Wrapped in bandages
Now from head to toe
Under tomb stones

So while they fill
The jars with organs
And herbs so that
The dead may be

Scent like death
Like pages of papyrus
Withering with wraps

Around every finger
And wrist laying lifeless
In the sarcophagus
Fraying with the pages
Like chipping paper-machè

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