I crumble dried fish in the mortar
try to imagine these hard brown bodies
silver bulleted and swimming
like commas of grace caught in light
not headless in a crowd in a jar
salted and hot with chilies
they look like the bodies
of mummies without wrappings
or peat men leathered in bogs
or how I imagine we will all be
given enough time in the ground
and I wonder if anyone will see us
full-fleshed and dancing
caught in our unutterable joys
