Restoration
by Katie Kadue
Irony does not halt for death, but what good
will perfect cheekbones do you now?
The undertaker held your face in his hands
and it crumbled. Hours later you
were his Mona Lisa. The smile was perfect.
I touched your cheeks and they sprung back
at me, soft clay to mimic skin.
Eulogies sputtered from the pulpit, regrets dripping
from former lovers. A waste of words.
Could we not have all screamed Love,
injected ourselves into your apple cheeks
and closed our eyes with you?
Katie Kadue: I am a high school student living in Los Angeles and hope to pursue English and creative writing in college. My work has appeared in several online publications, including "Recursive Angel," "Fluid Ink Press," "Shampoo," and "Unlikely Stories."
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