Rites
When undertakers take the body, pimp
It up to please its final lover, stretch
Its limbs to that position while still limp
And use mascara and lipstick to etch
A long-time disposition for the lips
To welcome death, do hands attempt to call
Up partners from the past who grabbed her hips?
They do not know about when she was small
And mother watched her in her bath, or when
She watched her son lean over soup she made,
Or peaked at husbands and the other men
In church while virtued, voile-dressed women prayed.
Morticians do not try to see her, pale,
…
That April morning in her wedding veil.