Saturday, November 8, 2008

The Mortician's Art , by J.R.McRae '08

The morning comes

But dawns no more for you

Tamora Hutt …


Whose tears will rain on your unnurtured form


Frail as daylilies

And short-lived.


I have no history just my art

And a photograph to guide my careful strokes –

Who is this with you princess, smiling then,

Where is he now?

Will he follow in train your final carriage ride,

Snow White that never was a fairytale bride?


The tracery of veins still blue, the skin …

No line or wrinkle, smooth as ice

Is cold – how old were you?


For whom do I apply my art?

The man in his designer suit who’ll pay the bill,

The woman with sculpted nails and face,

Who hurried on to some other place,


But dropped in the dress

So tissue fine and snowflake white

(Was it last night?) –

For you Tamora Hutt I hide the bruising, mend

The broken skin and blend

The colours of my palette to disguise

The horrors drowned within your eyes.


I am your bridesmaid, I’ll attend you well –

No tears now child, no tears, not ever again,

They shall not see the desolation of your final hours

I have repaired

You to your bridal bower –

Rest now …

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