Painting the dead
A poem by Jennie E. Owen

Painting the dead

Room lighting is key for the task
bright daylight, the best.  Old newspapers
essential to catch the spills, plus kitchen paper
to suction excess drops.  I recommend
mixing the colours in an old dish, the lid
of a margarine tub.  A jam jar.

I started of course, with hand tinting photos,
bringing back the glow of black and white
brides, children at the beach,
the pink in the lips of memento mori.
The flesh tones are the hardest, they require
a lightness of touch, a deftness God given.
I blow life and pigments, gentle exhalations
tremble across the surface.

There is no longer a need to advertise my craft.
They come to me, knock at my door.  I find
tiny coffins, or gifts of feathers and leaves
that wash up and spill cross my floor.
Two or three times a day: a limb, an ear,
a lifted brow to piece together.

You cannot bring back the dead I warn them
as I warm the lips and chaff the skin,
but you can colour and frame them,
hang them brightly in the next room.

About the Author:

Jennie E. Owen’s writing has been widely published online, in literary journals and anthologies. She has been nominated for both the Pushcart and Forward prizes. She teaches Creative Writing for The Open University and lives in Lancashire, UK with her husband and three children. She is a PhD student at Manchester Metropolitan University, focusing on poetry and place.

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