Mortician’s Soliloquy

kate bailey

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I prayed to Love for her

that she might wander near,

or near enough.

Creation is no easy thing

nor for the faint of heart.

It takes muscle and heat

and a willingness to look into

eyes that do not see.

I stick to my vision.

The eyes are not quite right, but

the skin is. Life so lifeless,

drained.

Blood leeched

like faded paint.

Cool and pale and smooth

like stone worn by centuries

of wind or water.

She does not prune when I bathe her,

but floats. This is love.

Her limbs are just how I left them,

rigid in invitation. This is love.

The throat stills its shrill vibration,

tongue’s mumbling ceased. This is love.