“All that now rests inside:” a poem

All that now rests inside

Stuart Higginbotham

In a room full of deities,

statues of gold, bronze, wood, and stone,

I stand still, surrounded by eyes

turned inward in a circle,

my own pulled toward every reflection with

the tease of a glimmer dancing on bare torsos

and faces fixed with molten glances.

Priests gather around,

chants and robes both flowing,

incense thick in the air,

prayer held in a sweet fog that clouds the mind,

giving the soul a chance to step forward.

The sarcophagus of the mother

stands facing the sarcophagus of the son

with the body of the father

laid with care between the two of them,

the king at rest with a hope to rise.

A crowd rushes in like water

through a narrow cleft in the rock,

spilling through the doorway,

smashing ancient clay pots

long empty and sitting in rows on shelves, 

waiting for a new purpose to become clear.

“They are worth as much broken

as they are whole,” someone says.

I climb to the top of a golden statue

of the king, standing tall with

unblinking eyes that see all.

I hold onto the shoulders of the pharaoh,

looking closely at a necklace

of seven bright stones set in place

and a headdress lit by candlelight.

With shaking hands I hold the necklace

against my own chest and slowly breathe

as my attention settles to a single point. 

In the last moment of the dream

I am in a room full of laughing people,

oblivious to the power I have touched,

that has touched me,

as I press my hand against my heart

and feel all that now rests inside.

This poem was inspired by a powerful dream I had in early September, 2023. I wrote the dream down in the middle of the night and then sat with it, letting it work on me for many days, before taking the images and seeing what poem may rise out of those reflections.