Kiss a dead girl? 

Kiss a dead girl? 

Kiss her ruddy lips, her stark face. They called her Snow White, a pretty name for a corpse. Snow White, evoking glistens of fresh crystal, the name portrayed the cold dead of winter. The cold, dead of winter.

Kiss the dead girl. 

Rumors spread that she would rise, come to life if I did. The heir to a kingdom, swimming in gold. Swimming thoughts, contemplating the heir with no air, a queen in repose. Holding the court of the dead. I shook my head in admonition, took a breath in desperation, closed my eyes in concentration.

Kiss the dead girl!

I puckered up to kiss the cadaveour.

And when I puckered up, they stuck. Warm to cold in frozen tableau. Sparkling in the swirling snow. Flakes on her eyelashes, her nose, catching in her hair, spinning lace across her brow. Until I felt warmth from her mouth, her hands, her heart. She stood from her slab and stood tall and bright. And I finally saw her.

Snow White.

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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