In twenty-three years, the only smiles
That I have seen
Have been in photographs.
Even those were forced,
Clothes only worn for an occasion.
I was told,
"It hasn't always been like this,"
But I never had the gall
To ask for proof
Or why.
Then this picture,
Composed of scattered documents
And salt water, developed.
A woman stands impatiently by a door,
A product of a mother's wish
To showcase a new dress.
Her lips are curved up,
Healthy and smooth,
Not at all like the dried scales
Over which morphine was poured;
Her skin looks soft,
Not like the leather we held.
Something happened that last day:
Her maw moved into an unfamiliar shape.
It wasn't a smile,
But as her last breath slowly left,
She seemed relaxed.

And, perhaps, now, the corners of her mouth
Can, once again, grow upward.