The Perfect Color
Approaching the mausoleum,
Angels winked on either side, their nudity
Out of place in the cold wind of December.
The sack was heavy,
A big brown bag slung over my shoulder,
Bulging with the tools of my trade.
I entered the dark chamber,
Struck a match and lit the small torch
Housed above the stone.
The name looked the same
As any other name I've hacked to bits
With the hammer and chisel...
Working the stone away from the opening,
I let the pieces tumble to the marble floor
Not caring if the angels heard.
The newly deceased would shudder
When I shook her from the box,
but what could she say?
It was a solid coffin,
a rich white gleaming like the bones I needed,
The solid, shimmering instruments that kept me fed.
Yes, those and the long curls,
And the eyes too,
if they were the right color.
I tugged at the box,
but it wouldn't budge--
I chided myself for not bringing my partner.
I pulled with every muscle,
Pulled, cursing myself with obscenities fit only
For the ears of the dead.
I was too selfish and greedy,
The kids needed to eat
So I stood alone, alone in the flickering stench of decay.
"Who are you?"
I heard the voice, a small whisper
Creeping from behind.
A cold hand touched my cheek from the side,
Icy lips touched my temple--
There was no one there.
No one, I told myself...no one.
I felt the touch, smelt the lingering floral scent,
Saw the wisps of vapor taking form.
There was no one there...
Just a woman with long dark curls, and blue eyes--
the perfect color.
Dena L. Moore
November 4, 2001
