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CHRISTINE BOYKA KLUGE
Mummy on the Doorstep
Sometimes they deliver only
a shrunken body, yellow and leathery as a dog toy. The translators prop
her in your doorway, ring the doorbell, then hide behind her, holding
their breath. When you open the door, expecting a package . . . well,
there she is—blink-blink—eyeless visitor from another
time and place. They've gussied her up, tied a red silk ribbon around
her little bald head.
From the shape of the lovingly-wrapped linen, you
detect the former beauty of her flesh. But her mind, extracted by hook,
must be sleeping in a funerary jar elsewhere. Her falsetto chatter is
as unintelligible as scarabs scratching sand. What, WHAT? Here
and there words and images glitter like the gold snakes in her earlobes.
But her language only sparkles at random. Your questions cannot be heard
by those puckered apricot ears.
The mummy shuffles her parchment feet on the welcome
mat. OH! Come in, come in. The translators crouch at her calves,
panting, pushing her legs—first one, then the other—forcing
her forward, into the foyer. As you recoil, she staggers a few steps on
her own, stiff as an ironing board. They give her an extra shove, and
she bounces into your arms. Perplexed but polite, you accept their gift.
(Is she theirs to give? Or museum loot?) You lift her over your head,
weightless as a piñata, rattling like a gourd—and shake her,
listening to the dried seeds talk. 
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