Photographs of the Dead

Last night I dreamt I was taking portraits of the dead
art photographs of the beautiful deceased,
all lying on my mother's bed
draping gold Klimt lace all around the frame.  

I woke up wishing I could paint.

I think this is probably important, think
it probably means more than this, but
all I wanted was gold paint and a fine tiny brush
to draw the netted lace beneath the bone pale woman and
in her black hair, and against the silvery gray of her dress and the silk of her robe.

I think she should look scattered, with one ankle turned out, and
one wrist back and delicate, chin tilted just a little nearer to it than not
Like she's fallen in leaves, in autumn.
All is gold and silver and printed Chinese silk, and warm and cold together.

There were more of them, there, more portraits,
more bodies to arrange and more fabric and drape and color to add, but
she is the one I remember, the only one, the last one before I had
to close my eyes hard, to keep it dark enough to finish the picture,
before I lost the last threads of gold lace sleeping.

I want to tell you all my dreams, this time, but I think I'd better not.