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Kathryn Daszkiewicz

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Last Word

You won’t remember me, the humble artisan.
I’ve come a long way since ... well, I’ll not speak of that.
I paint the tombs of great ones, like yourself. So, after all
this time, we meet again. Except you’re in a box - a pretty
grand one, granted, all overlaid with gold.
Gearing yourself up for the afterlife.

Everything’s finished, except these here paintings.
They’ve left me to it. Reliable I am, see? Never been known
to get it wrong. It’s what I paint that counts. OK,
you’ve been embalmed. No unguents spared – even
some extra stored in alabaster jars. And yards of linen
holding you together. But you’ll rot, they always do.

That’s where I come in. Your spirit’ll live in this.
That’s why we have to paint in everything. It wouldn’t do
to be without your bits - not with with eternity just round the corner.
Where all the crops are taller, cattle fatter,
where silver fish are begging to be caught
and beer and wine flow like the Nile in Flood.

Now I’ll drop this deep blue bowl -
with lotus flowers unfolding to the dawn!
Move this big canopic chest so that it rests
just underneath my work. And then the priest who checks
and seals the door will fail to notice that
you will go legless to the Field of Reeds.

 

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