poem by Nancy Jo Allen photograph, "The Lamb," by Fabrice Poussin
We step into the exhibit—
a cavernous, dimly lit room
with sporadic lights like eyes
of gods watching from above
over these petrified corpses
that occupy room
after room with bodies
mummified to eternity.
Desert climate and peat
bogs unintentionally
preserved bones, hair, teeth,
nails, and internal organs of some.
Others have undergone elaborate
processes with desiccants.
Here, there is a reverence
both expected from patrons
and demanded by humanity
for those lying in state now
in hand-hewed sarcophagi
that tell their tales
on display under glass
And now, as I stand in this dark,
vast space under the watchful eyes
of the exhibit lights, I consider
how timeless the need is to preserve
our stories.