Dead

Dead



Lying in state
(of confusion, perhaps,
as she wasn't there--
just her shell)
with her thinning hair in a pouf
as she always wore it
back when a chignon
was how she wore her hair
when out in the world.
A dusting of make-up, lipstick
on set mouth: she of the mouth
usually spread wide in smiles or open
in laughing hilarity. Wearing her blue suit
of 'The Lady in Blue' fame for her last
public performance.


Oh, she looked so good,
as if she were asleep,
dreaming of angels.


Oh, the shell was reminiscent of her,
if you caught a glimpse from
the corner of your mind, but
all that she was, embodied, exuded
was now elsewhere. Probably shaking
her head at the rituals we insist upon
and bewailing the fact that
although she was, once again, always,
the center of attention,
she was so still--
for still was something
she wasn't.

No make-up artist will ever,
can ever perfect the art
of spark.

And that spark, the very essence
of her-ness
wasn't there, could be there no longer
else we'd have been laughing
and swopping tales
instead of blinking back tears
and wanting to be away, far away,
from that funerial blanket
that did nothing to warm anyone.