I'm sorry, but this one is really a downer - I'm going thru some pretty awful times now I've never written poetry (at least since I was forced to in school) but I wanted to try and get this off my chest.



The Undertaker


"Mom, I like when you wear make-up!"
I hear my daughter say, and groan
(inwardly; why give her more pain than
she already has? The other girls in her class
have moms that smile and move around lightly;
fleet, happy birds whose movements are thoughtless and carefree,
instead of greedily hoarded then carefully spent,
movement by precious movement,
as a miser hoards rare and costly things).

This means 5 less minutes of precious rest; but ...
it also means a little gift for my daughter,
who has fewer daily presents under her tree than those other girls;
but these presents are bought with more costly currency.

So I get up, moving past the pain
(or through the pain or with the pain,
for I can't move past it)
to my dressing-table, where I lay out the tools
of my outward beauty.

Soft, creamy foundation, that smooths out the blotches
and softens the lines of pain and fatigue;
Warm brown eyeshadows, and soft, dark liner
to give sparkle to eyes that are dulled;
Mascara to conceal the hairs that are gone
(along with other, more precious things);
Soft lipstick to brighten a smile
(God, help me to remember to smile!)
and my mother's perfume (this last is for me;
the scent envelops me like her arms;
a soft, warm, gentle embrace that doesn't hurt
because it isn't real).

I lay out the tools -
and start painting the corpse.