Slowly. The body closes, muscle sutures itself.
The blood dries, the skin shifts from red, purples, shines.
Each day you run your finger over it, it’s less.
An itch below the surface. It’s there to remind you.
Ancient Egyptians pulled the organs through
a small cut at the groin of the bodies of the dead,
somehow knowing that all these years later,
people would unwrap, inspect the mummy, find
the incision, still evident. You look to find it,
imbedded. There’s pain, and then it dulls.