Five thousand years ago, ancient Egyptians revered death.
A temporary interruption in cartonnage masks
Opened the mouth, and drew forth Ba, Ka, and Akh
With the promise of paradise in the Field of Reeds.
Today, death dwells as an unwelcome guest in my living room—
A funeral trapped in my parent's shadows.
Maat does not offer us feather or scale,
Instead, my grandmother resides in the tears of my mother
And my aunt is hidden in my father's anger.
Eternal life no longer waits at seven gates,
She lingers in clipped sarcophagi-prints—
A plague of unspoken memory in the silhouette of my parents.