The flower began to slump over The stem began to break Dressed in black and rain-soaked holding this broken white orchid When she shut herself in to paint, her canvas, like a tiny graveyard Mimicking an even smaller universe, opened up, 6 or more feet down and actualized as the equivalent of a portal to somewhere in space Like a vortex of toys and teeth A blur of a few birthdays and Christmases She painted the ashes Into her piece that sat reverent like a Bible on its stand And the paint swallowed the matter like an ocean settling and calming sand onto its bottom She manifested her intentions For her child into her art Created, as a mantra for healing, a vice, and a cross to clutch The body was broken and given like last communion Burnt and condensed by the elements into its original form Materialized from stardust A spiritual flesh-vessel sacrifice to the art-God Given to an audience who cannot understand A place of rest, hope-more than a source of texture A painting that can never be finished-a physical burden that can never be discarded Pressure to make beauty in death, something that cannot be paralleled By earthly aesthetics