I’m thinking about the ancient Egyptians
and how when someone died
they would separate the body forever in four jars,
four jars all pointing toward
a different place on earth, a different point in space,
and how I’m like a tower
of these containers, how my stomach, intestines, lungs
and liver are all stacked up,
one on top of the other with my heart like a beating
pyramid somewhere in the middle,
the desert of my body
all around it, the great unblinking eye
at the very top
looking out at thousands of slaves, my blood cells,
the long scroll of my brain,
a pharaoh not wanting to die, wanting to live
through each decade, each century
like Freemasons, like Dollar, Dollar Bills, Y’all.
My life like the jars too; each love
its own thing, each life
and each death poured into the dark mouth of the limestone,
all my memories, all the nights and the wind
in the night. I want to build four new
jars out of the glycerin rain, out of the atomic
dirt I keep finding beneath my nails
and in each one I want to place a short film, eighteen millimeters
of apology. The myth I have made
of my life is solid gold, a sarcophagus with my face
painted on, it’s a kingdom built in the desert of the eighties,
a glimmering nightclub in the distance
where my twin brother is dancing through the hieroglyphic
strobe lights, thinking about a sentence he began
years ago, a city made out of sandstone and clove
cigarettes, frankincense and thighs, French-kissing
and obelisks, a city I’m getting ready to leave, city of organs,
city of rock. I can feel the canopic jars inside me
beginning to tip. When I say I’m leaving the city, it must be
my body I’m talking about, it must be Portland, Thebes, Valley of the Kings.