On the Table

by Martha Daniel
Lovely, I have heard of mummies. 
The faces, like prunes, have blackened and
lost feature— the heat of the sand,
filtering in a hiss,
has scalded every inch of their senses,
made wrinkles wince with its flavor.
Pucker for me, please.
I wonder if such balms
would improve the state of my toes,
would have kept the color of my keratin.
The green horizon at my shin
borders a barren, fired land,
charred by some internal dead-man,
glad to make my acquaintance
but aiming to sever before sawing-men start.
Would you bury a whole halved man?