When you died, he worked feverishly,
methodically, like a paramedic
striving to resuscitate your fragile
spirit, to wring your heartbeat back.
There on the canvas he imagined
you alive, a single repeated photograph,
stuttered like invocations on a rosary.
Twenty-five beads of joy, twenty-five
of sorrow, every fifteen minutes a cycle
of prayer. On one side, your acrylic life
glows vivid; on the other, your captive
visage fades to black-and-white.
Framed by his urgent hand, you find
a silkscreened immortality.