Her face had been
made up by a stranger.
Her coffin was wet with rain
and when they opened it
a dirty drop must
have fallen from
the lid and splattered
on her forehead.
I leaned over
inhaling deeply.
Her fragrance was gone –
replaced by synthetic smells.
I licked my thumb to
wipe the smudge
and when I touched
her skin I realized
that her warmth
was gone, too.
I shivered –
cold as the
church stones.
Joe Dolsen lives and writes in the suburbs of Chicago. He has worked as a mason's assistant, in a cabinet making factory, and in a psychiatric unit. Find out more: joedolsen.blogspot.com
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