The Viewing

The satin she is packed in like a box 
Of snow surrounds her body. Not a lock 
Of hair is out of place, her face in mock 
Serenity with make-up masked. The clock
Above her on the mantlepiece has stopped
At twelve o’clock, the two hands one atop
The other, as her own hands, too, lie propped. 
Her eyelids have deliberately been dropped 
Forever with a special glue, the rot 
Delayed with a refrigerator, shots
Of cold embalming fluid where the hot
Blood used to flow. The only place she’s not, 
If she is anywhere, is here where she 
Was formerly condemned to only be.