Tea Among the Corpses

Comatose woman,
What should be perfected?
The aligned limbs are not defected.
Her hair,
Her hair sparse yet fair,
The eyes require no care.
They gleam and dare
Others for a righteous fare,
The beloved suicide, there, is impaired.

This woman is wasted;
Her children hasten;
The spouse is curt and chaste.
The suicide,
She lies to one side.
Thick pupils hide
(Underneath fickle clouds)
Comatose,
Who was wronged?
The girl is long
Gone,
No one to collect or don
A name to pretty Miss Wrists,
Her gist, once a paper cut, now a dreadful brown chain.

I sit between the two;
A satin hand tipping yellow hue
To each sister,
Miss Wrists does not approve of Mister.
The woman does not bother.
In death,
She calls out to her Father.

“Hello, head, hello.”

The blue china breaks but does not bellow.
O dear
I rake for the shards—
Gravity makes this hard.
Two eyes and a head appear;
One near shields stitched wrists.
The other is thoughtful yet awful as
She closes herself in.