Lexicon of appearance, the small mouth, a bow
on the present. Her face came unhinged
in a diptych mirror. Slow eyes,
their slotted indecision, wave of cool blue
wafting through four walled rooms.
At least two sides to each always, at least.
The dead must stay dead, she said,
past flesh bifurcating at bone rim,
past rattle and false growth of hair, the occasion
of eye cloud and blood congesting in hollows.
(Tell little Isabellita not to weep, Ham said,
the flowers were meant to fade. And the dried fronds
will unfold only under the water.)
The clock faced the night like a white coat
in a half-lit room. She had once watched
. . .
a thorax opened at autopsy, noted the liver as marble,
the lungs as a gray flannel suit. Felt the caustic
effects of the chemical on her eye’s fishy underlids.
Vulnerable membrane of underside. Of nose, of throat.
Sways what, she wondered, on these actions?
The posthumous frown set in the center of the diamond.