David Painting Marat

First unblemished: the pox. I slip my brush
across his half-white face, creating
it anew. The bristles part, they split, like Moses

separating foamy crest from wave. They lie
along his cheek, a horse-hair cradle,
strange caress. I dress his head in linen

and his arching neck in holy agony. His
smoothed chest, under my touch, is fair as some
fair maiden or some Christ, skin undiseased.

I embalm his memory for the sterile Pantheon.
I invent his martyred peace, his restful lids.
I prepare his heart for altar, and his body

for the sewage.