roughfire2

Firmly planted in black plastic heels Poses an ebony model Adorned with her tribe’s garments Scarring stripes and faded geometric tattoos Etched the stories of battles and runway walks The structured warrior’s body The black locks are luscious, The hairy helmet shaken To frame her five o’ clock shadow Strips of faux leopard print The savage beast slain into fashion Drapes around the waist Camouflage the secret of her tribe Her lips puckered with the blood Of an enemy Or a lover The last of the Glamazons breathes heavily A slight nod and the wink of an eye Provokes me to take her picture.

This is what you wanted. You get to do what you wanted to do with your life, embalming, to take care of and prepare the dead for their passage to the next world. You’re caring for the bodies even though the life is gone.  You felt a connection with him or her that you couldn’t make with someone who was living. You would work in your lab from 9 to 5, only taking a short time to walk back to your apartment. You were never the one to venture out on your own or interact with the abundant life around you, but when an embalmer’s conference in London was about to take place, you decided to go in order to better your own practice.