linen

Waking, she thought
she was dead
twisted
in damp cloth.
She lay
eyes shut, straining
to see
through her own skin.

The light inside
my tomb is red
she thinks. I am not
breathing; I am
not hearing; I am not needing
breath or sound—
I am light in my bones
waiting to be sifted
out
of some layer of earth
suspended
with all else that was
heavy above
but weightless
below.

The early sun bores
into her eyelids
eyes
her brain
awakens to twisted
damp linen
and she wonders
how she got here.