Necropolis

By Bradley McIlwain

The sun dies,
turning

modern rooms
to tombs,

ready
for embalming.

Absence of light
shudders

the hand, or
strengthens it;

in the dark,
I search for the razor,

dig my blade

beneath the skin,
exposing lump
size bites,

and ask:

this is how
Carnarvon
must have died.

Dust turns the
mouth dry.
In the heat

I am a corpse,
watery
and forgetful.

Beetles screech
beyond
the floorboards,

summoning kings –
here, in the desert,
nights bite at bone.

Somewhere,

along the Nile, 
Isis swallows up her brother’s magic.

In dreams,
I taste her curses
on my forehead,

travelling down
my fevered brain.

Bio

Bradley grew up fascinated by ghost stories from his grandmother, who once lived in a haunted Italian village. His aunt lent him a copy of Stephen King's Nightmares & Dreamscapes when he was eight years old. Sometimes he still leaves the light on. Bradley is the author of Elementals: poems, IOWI (2015) and editor at Buried Horror.