My tunic—a painted chainmail of snails’ shells,
Hundreds, its beadwork my shroud & raiment.

Into the clay I’m lowered. Incantation & spell.
My brothers, sisters, parents.
                                                The eyelids—

Open forever, to meet the afterlife awakened.
Crimson ochre hissed through hollow reeds

Covers my face; my eyes dazzle, I died young—
16, 18, ochre too rains down upon my pelvis,

Signifying death in childbirth. Beside the shoulders
My stillborn is placed,
                                   a boy, & he’s gripping

An antler spearpoint longer than his torso.
The afterlife, the afterlife.
                                          He’s cradled on a swan’s wing:

The gods’ white messenger, the feathered & disjointed pinion,
Which can’t be my wing since it is only one.

   Contributor’s notes

   Introduction
   Something of Us to Prove Our Afterlife: Notes on “Ochre”
   Table of Contents
   Acknowledgements

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