Her Dead Face Wounds Me Poem by Patti Masterman

Her dead face wounds me,
Apprehends me, in my flowing breath
Arrests me for the flagrant violation of still living
After she has died, for her belief.

Perhaps the method of achieving her martyrdom
Left much to be desired; but now that it's done
Her photo reproaches powerfully:
The ragged stitching required, to re-close the skin near her mouth.

We shallow-lived creatures, still sucking air
While she has given up the thing most precious;
Her fragile bones and lungs crushed
By embracing the fearsome weight of responsibility.

For all of our noncompliant shallowness,
We can still feel grateful, in our pangs of conscience
At being allowed to pass over that particular cup-
Quickly now: turn the page.