Her Dead Face Wounds Me

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.