A Smile for Frances
by Seth Amos
Heavy pink smeared flat across your face—
a face you never made, not the mouth
that chewed half sticks of gum, that twanged
my name into a King James verb—“Sayeth”—
that repented for reciting “Out, damned spot!” in school.
You put red food coloring in your sweet pickles
because a recipe was a commandment. Then,
in death, strangers put their fingers in your mouth,
looked at pictures of you smiling, tried to
convince us you were happy
that November morning. Our stiff lips hid peppermints.
There must have been drafts—the floor of the morgue
littered with discarded grins, smirks, frowns—
you, their fleshy palimpsest, disapproving, but ready.