Paul Brookes is asking for Tutankhamun-inspired poems today. This is mine.


In the dry dark cracked open,
gold is mute, gemstones without fire,
air without breath.

The walls crawl
with picture-written magic,
in processions of silence.

Lamplight pierces the gloom
of rooms sealed in lead, beeswax
and the deep indifference of time,

where corpses, babies and a boy,
dried, gutted and embalmed, wrapped
and barded with amulets and prayers,

are still dead.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

10 thoughts on “Desecration”

    1. Yes, I know. It’s as thought we’re ever so reverential about death, inventing euphemisms so we don’t even have to upset people by using the D word, but as soon as someone dead is interesting, has lots of gold and stuff to draw the crowds, all respect goes out the window.

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