Today's poem is Embalming by Sheila Wellehan. It is read by Julia Bouwsma.
Embalming
My mother hated embalming—
stiff bodies in open caskets
with grayish skin and too-bright lipstick
made her cringe.
She wanted to be burned
and her ashes buried quickly.
We honored her request,
but I defy my mother
with pieces of her
I've unsuccessfully preserved
throughout my home.
The last hydrangeas cut
from her magnificent shrub
lost their color years ago,
and decompose on my desk.
Petals drop as I drink
from her chipped-and-glued
coffee mug each morning.
I've worn her clothes so often
they're threadbare and shabby,
despite my patching and mending.
But my mother's clothes stay in my closet,
because I respect the art of embalming,
because I need to believe in ghosts.