In the first year, the flesh dried on her bones
Some insects hatched from eggs and tore their way
out through her skin. And then they flew away
leaving her lonely. Purple, green, the tones
that mould laid on her slowly moulting skin
faded to dust. Her fluids leaked to dry,
a moth turned paper lying on one eye.
Her beauty changed. Not as she once had been
ripe as a grape – now the wine press debris
that death makes of us all. Yet in her case
honed fineness in the wreckage of her face.
Fragments of skin, white bone, a vacancy
where once her eyes were bright before she died.
Transformed, transfigured. Also mummified.