I’ve told him that when I die,  
he may sleep with as many women as he likes,  
as long as he will vow to sob post-coitally.  

I tell him first as I double-u my legs  
over his torso, pull the blue duvet  
around the lump our bodies make, 
and I tell him straight-faced.  
We laugh about it occasionally, 
our little death joke. 

The Egyptians believed the heart  
is where the soul is –  
slit the bellies of the dead, remove the still organs,  
but leave the quiet heart between its ribs,  
wrapping the arms, torso, slick, clammy skin  
tight in white. They performed  
the Opening of the Mouth ceremony, touched  
the mummy on the lips, eyes and ears with a blade  
so he could speak and sense, live again in the hereafter. 

You wrap me, strip over strip of our linen bed sheets,  
listen to my voice, provide me with a blade.  
I plea for you to keep me inside  
so that when you stop breathing,  
your heart will weigh no more than a feather, 
and when what remains is only stillness, 
we can pull open our red centers,  
and watch a sacred ibis unfold itself into flight.