As with the Egyptians, it begins by removing the brain.

Gray matter caught on the hooked edge of

a new name,

then pulled through the nose.

They leave the heart.

It is easily bruised by new and everlasting covenants

battered by promises to hearken, to serve, priestesses dressed in their

burial clothes,

given unto him.

They leave the uterus, of course, for posterity.

A virgin sacrifice wrapped in white, bound tightly in stiff polyester,

pantomiming her own death over and over as an oily hand pulls spirit from body.

The transition from pew to box is easy now.

Years later, as the bones crumble under cheap silk, she turns toward the sound of trumpets. Her clavicle scrapes against the lid as she turns . . .

The ground shakes with a familiar voice calling

calling

calling

calling

But without a brain, without a heart, only a uterus long dry and tired bones, she turns back, deep into the ground, crushed femurs and sternum and skull falling away from the robes and the veil.

That’s not my name

That’s not my name

That’s not my name

Has it a name?

No.