She
She
is dead
her face a tiny moon – pallid and yellowing
her mouth a bruised plum
she hovers
on the other side of thick glass
like a baby beluga
by the blue light
of the morgue, she has no halo
her delicate child-body balances on a slab
built for men
with bigger limbs and lives
she is dressed in her best
in white puckered cotton that opens like a flower.
I have never seen her this way nor will again
for the last time
someone is touching her. It is not one of us
but a nurse combing her hair the wrong way
First published: Fire, 13, Edited by Jeremy Hilton, 2001