Dressing for Death

White had always served me well:
Enhancing the parts that have now let me down.
Harold always said he loved my breasts
He died a happy man.
Parading in the bedroom, bones crack
Like rotten twigs,
Last years weekly squash sessions
Seem someone else’s memory.
This face that the mirror takes no pity on
Hangs, weak, and frail
A shadow of its once healthy self.
I married in white, making a pact with my man
Now death waits patiently to take my hand.
Everything has become a symbol of demise
The tube of toothpaste
Which lessens as it’s eaten away
The rotting apples on the table,
My hair which dams the plug hole.
And this dress, white with cherished memories
Now a sheet hanging.
Who to wear it for?
For those that will mourn my passing
To lessen the impact of my withered form
For Me? To ensure a little dignity.
Two weeks, Two Months
It’s hard to say,
Even for the nominated doctor.

Black seems too formal.
I first made love in black
A sleek silk dress,
I remember it drooped on the floor
Smirking back at me.
Yellow too bright for such an occasion
Green is too mocking
Red is blood, which will
Soon no longer flow.
The mirror softens
Is must sense my inability to decide
Sunlight falls upon the diamonds
Of the dress
And for a moment I resemble me.
Today I shall choose white,
Tomorrow should it come
Might see me in lavender
Harold would moan
half his life was spent
Waiting whilst I got dressed.
Will Death
Remain as patient.