I.            Vertebrae speckle the screen,            gathering in places            like strings of anise.Ribs tilt into spun haloes.                    Her body cavity lures you closer:                    once sawdust-and-cinnamon-                    packed, what endures is            a neon jam            of splintered bones                                    (a femur lodged in the pelvis).
II.The curator reveals that inside the sycamore coffin,
within the linen cocoon, toes migrated north.That Hatason was never eviscerated,
that her brain still floats on its own sediment.When he tugs at her mummy bundle, moored
beside high res images, she bares a solitary tooth.

III.You are not interested
in the volume of bandaging
as an indicator of class,or the molten resin
used to anoint her body;
how many amulets, if any,were scattered over her.
What interests you
is the space betweenthe collapsed skeleton
and yards of linen.
As if somehow,Hatason shrunk away
from the embalmers’ maneuvers
to revise her afterlife.