Sandra Guy
she
she is dead
her face a tiny moon - pallid and yellowing
her mouth a bruised plum
she hovers
on the other side of thick glass
like a baby beluga
by the blue light
of the morgue, she has no halo
her delicate child-body balances on the slab
built for men
with bigger limbs and lives. (the smell of death here
is a chemical smell that creeps under your skin and clings).
she is dressed in her best
a white puckered cotton opens her corpse like a flower
i have never seen her this way nor will again
for the last time
someone is touching her, it is not one of us
but the nurse combing her hair the wrong way.
Page(s) 87-88
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