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


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?



tyrannosaurusreg said...

This is breathtaking. Thank you.

a hopeful cynic said...

This gives me chills. ❤️

Fig said...

Thank you. I don't know what else to say, mostly because I'm stunned. This speaks to a trauma in me.

Unknown said...

My breath is stuck somewhere under my heart. God...

Insana D said...

Crimony, you nailed it so perfectly. Every soul crushing and angst induced sensation. The whole temple experience is a harrowing loss of identity and submission to eternal nothingness.

Breanne said...


Abbey said...

I am Astounded by your brilliance. Truly remarkable.

chosha said...

It had never occurred to me before that they are marrying in their burial clothes.

Excellent poem.

Mungagungadin said...

This is why I couldn't do temple anymore, blacked out right there. Nor will I ever answer that name, given to me to make me someone's possession, someone I thought I could trust.