The Beautiful House

If the ancient Egyptians could rest peacefully
on pillows made of stone
I should be able to withstand these rigid laws of residency,
this bargain bin placement, this super-market life.
But the Musak won’t be muted, so I hum
to tune out black
bird singing, dead, dark
machine: off-key, broken,
while dog-headed baboons type paperbacks at the cash register.
I gather my items. I don’t pay
attention, I’m isle-wandering again, canopic
jars thump against hips, everything hermetic, everything sealed
for safety: nasal cavity passageway, bloodless slit become portal;
they forgot to leave the heart inside
but it was never the center of my soul anyway.
In the core where the river flows
I am still
ready to wear suit of pestilence,
letting the flies swarm my mouth. Oh darling,
I can’t fix the hole, it all comes pouring in and
I keep building the display—
expired soup cans and iridescent dung beetles,
till this tower leads to the silence that fills the spaces
where babble falls away.