The body shines on the table.Pure as a figure carved atop a tomb.
Not a tremor, not a twitch, no stirring,
eyes stay gummed shut.
Bloodless, still as stone, my husband now.
The table raised and bathed, scents
burned for sacrifice
and a lone chair for me.
All for one purpose: to look.
The looking--and the being looked at--
this is the ceremony.
I look as would a lit candle,
the earth's wick burning down inside me,
still inside him, too, but only hot in me.
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