In the shower,

her body dies like a spider’s.

The blooming flower

seeds a cemetery.

A pill lodges in the inner pocket of her flesh coat.

Her breasts were the gifts of ghosts.

Dark tarps of success.


Her mouth dribbles over

onto the bathroom floor.

Pollock blood.


The body is removed off the red carpet,

put in a black bag,

taken to the Mother’s screams

for identification.


The Country says good things

about the body.


They print the best photos;

the least bones, the most peach.


Candles are lit in the glint

of every glam.  Every magazine stand

does the Southern Belle curtsy

in her post-box office bomb honor.


The autopsy finds an easy answer.

They say good things about the body.


How bold her eyes were, bigger than Hepburn’s.

The way she could turn into her camera close-up

like life depended on her.


(© 2010 Amber tamblyn)