The Palace of Bones

Painting the Dead

Painting the Dead Old woman, Hands rough as walnuts, Gathers flowers and straw, Sews fresh wreaths to every wall. No strength in the scent of death. Corpses in and out of the house, Delivered at all hours, driven Alongside fresh bread trucks. Something is still alive Within the smell, a voice. Painting the dead: One will ask her To tighten a bandage Or get them a snack. She soothes their heads, Makes them up prettier Than they’ve ever looked. First time on stage, young child? She sleeps with the smell Of dead love on her hands. Washing only rubs it in. 57 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. Old men who die lonely rest with larger stomachs. Young men who die alone are thin. A man’s hand has larger scabs Only because the hand is larger. Women have more bruises Only because the skin bruises better. Worried women have thinner jawbones. Old women have cleaner feet. Young women never die well. If the fist is closed, they are happy to leave. If the fist is open, there was much left to do. Washing only moves it around. 58 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...