Solace

The skin so discolored
after days of still blood. Hair
tucked back in an almost bun.
Breath: an illusion of the eye.
Frown set in the closed jaw--
no more food to distribute
throughout the body. The minerals
can settle.

Toes turn inward as though ashamed.
My mother turns the cloth up,
handles the calves. I caution her:
health codes. No embalming.
Her voice: "I must do this." She must
touch the body. She pushes to the thighs,
the laces of veins.

White lace trims the skin from wrist
to neck to waist. Undertakers must
have struggled. The men who shook our hands
hooked those arms, hoisted the shoulders
and unfurled that springtime dress.
The blanched skin would indent,
not spring back, under the stress.

I leave my mother with the womb
that bore her, lain out
in the shape of a woman.