Mark Sargent

Special to the Corpse from The Past:

PAINTED BY PATCHEN

“Keep still now,” Ken murmured

as he dipped his brush in water,

then tempera and brought it

to my face.  I was on a stool

pushed close to his bed and with

the length of the brush he could

easily reach my flesh.  A smoke

dangled always from his lips,

the opened carton of Picayunes

I had brought lay on the covers.

Heavy strokes of yellow down

my neck, vermilion chest, burnt

orange eyeballs, magenta spotted

tongue, “I’m making you into

an angel who is a laughing dog

so full of tears he might burst

all over the place and us without

our water-wings or anything

vaguely inflatable.” He winced,

set down his brush, sank against

the pillows and said, “When you bark,

make it a little people music.”

Miriam entered, gave him a shot

and his eyes closed with relief.

She took the cig from his mouth

and stubbed it out.