The undertaker is young, attractive—
your type. Sharp suit. Muted tie.
The kind of moment where I'd imagine
you'd make a joke about things that are "stiff,"
meaning you, except it's true:
you've made it onto your back for him
and it's golden, those moments of you
stripped in the backroom where it's always
a little too cool.
The undertaker asks, "Would you like to view the body?"
But I've seen you.
The air around the body is cold. You chill it.
My neck is cold. The blank coins of your eyes
have been removed.
He's laced your fingers
incorrectly. You're left-handed:
left thumb goes on top. A lover would know
these little details, like how
this isn't the first time
you've worn lipstick.
Your hair remains immaculate.
You mannequin, you. In your new black suit.
You, mannequin, on your back.
No one's going to love you like this—
Author Discusses Poems