In Egypt at the gates of the afterlife, three questions, Did you lie? Did you steal? Did you pollute the Nile? And although you worked as hard as a dung beetle, your tongue swollen for water, your knuckles bleeding into soil, wasn’t debris, scorn, your state of mind, result of your toil? The world is thick with your discard of lovers and hours. You broke your body for pennies, swallowed dollars. What you tossed is sent rotting on currents stronger than desire. Belly-up, what you wasted festers on banks, is given no pyre. Originally published in The Lake Rises: An Anthology. Forthcoming in Locust from Salmon Poetry.