The first time I touched it,
cloth fell under my fingers,
the frail white folds
softened, demure. No burn,
no combustion at the touch of skin.
It sat, silent, like any other contents
of any other box: photographs
of the dead, heirloom jewels.
Exposed to thin windowlight it is
exactly as in movies:
a long gown, and where a chest
must have breathed, a red cross
crossed over. The crown, I know,
waits underneath, the hood with eyes
carefully stitched open, arch cap
like a bishop’s, surging to its point.