The Language of Scorpions

The Language of Scorpions

Up polished steps of Cheops’s walls
the scorpions crawl, speaking prophecies
in spider tongues.

With the coming of Planet X,
our only certainty is death, yet hope
has brought us here. We seal the chamber,
praying other worlds like ours exist.

It's consensual, our voluntary burial.
Each bringing something precious
from this world with us to the next.

Mine is a photograph:
a child torched with napalm running naked toward
the camera, her screams frozen in a single frame.
By Munch's hand or a lens in '72, that unceasing wail
out of nothing from nowhere.

While packing for our sudden evacuation,
you ask, "Why this? It's just a photograph."

You take the Torah and a bag of other texts.   
More sensible selections for the world to come.   
If some future generation finds us
I trust they'll see I came willingly on this mission.

And if some alien race succeeds our passing,
will their archeologists find significance
in the strewing of our bones?

On rough stone steps of Cheop's walls,
the scorpions crawl, speaking prophecies
in spider tongues.