Niamh Clarkson

You lie there, as you have multiple times,

Dead still.

As relaxed as a rodent.

As still as shrew.

I watch, eagerly,

For a slight twitch.

An itch.

But yet you were lifeless, at rest.


Your body preserved,

Embalmed and wrapped.

You’ve read the ways, over your time.

Strips of linen, crisp and fresh,

Encase you from head to toe.

The white mass is you; I know.

Yet I know deep down, underneath is the real you.


Rectangle silver,

Slithering shapes of soft grey.

They’re underneath too.

Close to the skin.

The skin that it might have once turned green

With wear.

Not much wear now but they’re still there.


I told them not ten,

You wouldn’t approve.

The surroundings surround one another.

Cloak your body with veils of wood,

Handcrafted of course.

I’m glad it’s 13,

You’ll be safe in there.


Your heart is mine,

In and amongst everything that’s left.

With the vitals going to a human,

A falcon,

A baboon and whoever else.

I knew the heart was mine,

You gifted it to me with a red bow.

Yet I knew it must rest with the dead.


Oh, sacred carvings of 2000s text,

Keep her safe,

Let her rest.