My art is age-old, tricks smuggled over
Borders and passed down the aeons.
I make the dead lively—or pretty
Enough at least for a last kiss before
The long dirt slumber. My craft abets
Your grieving. I've got your loved one's number:
That flush of pink on his cheek, the part
In his hair precisely where he put it
When he was breathing. You'd almost swear
He was warm, never guess he'd been gutted,
Stuffed and sewn up like a scarecrow.
All my best work gets viewed once then buried—
But if I've got the mix right, you just might
Exhume a chef-d'oeuvre one day and goggle with awe.