Washing the Corpses

by Jane Zwart

 

These two dead painted themselves
before a mirror, but now, flour-dusted, they blush
 

under the powder, less than bloodless,
and, yes, eyeshadow shadows the draws
 

they sucked into their cheeks, but those hollows
also shimmer, belied by porch lights–
 

so mostly my sons hold pillowcases open
before neighbors who are bemused by their piebald,
 

expectant faces. More convincing is the kohl
that these bright-eyed corpses
 

have daubed at their blinking, rehearsing
the dark sockets that they will age into
 

and sleeplessness deepen, until its ash
sets, a pall more permanent than embalmers’ glue.
 

. . .
 

Of course I pray that these two dead
will live forever. I pray it as I swab kohl
 

from their blinking, absorbing the false decease,
and I pray it as under lavender lantern-jaws
 

I find my children’s familiar chins. Caked
on the washcloth, a cadaverous paste, and I cannot
 

scrub them pink enough, but I do spare
their lips, licorice-red, and kiss them goodnight
 

and pray: God, spare these corpses of an hour.
I have washed them back just into mortality.

---

Jane Zwart teaches English at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have previously appeared in Poetry, Rattle, Threepenny Review, Cincinnati Review, and TriQuarterly, as well as other journals and magazines.