An insight into the mayhem
surrounding my descent
can be derived
from a high resolution
photo of my corpse
reconstructed by court craftsmen
who were given the sacred charge
of preserving my image
by their skill, which
then would be
a form of worship.
But death seals everything
including intention.
A close inspection
of their portraits
reveals a form of abuse,
even derision.
The grotesquerie of the image
doesn’t offend me, no.
It’s a kind of tribute,
after all, like
any commissioned art.
But when I try to find
remains of my inner life
I’m not there.
My soul has been
blotted away
like useless punctuation.
Even immortal
I can’t recognize myself,
which was the reason
I did anything.
Stan Sanvel Rubin has published poems in numerous U.S. journals, including Agni, Poetry Northwest, and The Georgia Review, and journals in Canada, Ireland, and China. His work has appears several anthologies, most recently, Moving Images: Poems on Film and Abrazos: Dove Tales 10th Anniversary. Four full-length collections include There. Here. (Lost Horse Press) and Hidden Sequel (Barrow Street Poetry Book Prize). He lives on the north Olympic Peninsula.
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