COMPLAINT OF A SHREWMOUSE (MUMMIFIED) Poem by Tomas Lieske

To be able without a crumbled knowledge of phenol, sandy land or its fur-skin situation,
to still hold its own in the natron tube beside the leaden falcon calling itself Horus.

To preserve the life force while our children are dying on their bent knees
in the hot sand after which the slug tummies start to float through their bodies.

To be able to identify itself to the gatekeeper in the linen swathes
with resin and papyrus price-tag which describes whose shrewmouse it was.

To remind Queen Notmit of the linseed dynasty that I
lived under her throne and ate spilt drops of beeswax round her flinted feet.

To not have to feed myself to the falcon, claiming to be Horus, reeking beside me,
also being of noble birth, even though I'm in bitumen instead of regal lead.

To ensure my shrewmouse soul goes back into my tiny body, makes my sensitive snout
breathe life again and opens my eyes, glues back my rotted ears.

To discover whether the place I reside is dark, smells of musk,
is slug-thick and holds the joy of the shrew, excreted in the shape of Canopic turds.

To soften and embellish the old sweaty carpet-crease my body has become
with my paws extending backwards like a gymnast and my snapped-off tail.

To realise that sometime in the future something will surprise me, like abundant lichen,
and that not all the glory automatically befalls the falcon, jealous of me for so little.

Formulas,
formulas.

I am wrapped in formulas, upgraded with prayers. Everything vain. Not a fraction
of Horus action. Give me the memory of what I was like. Give me my portrait

on the outermost shrewmouse packaging, unreachable behind the prayer ink strands.
How much I long to see my hardy smile, my whiskers and my lively eyes.