Makeover

by Suellen Luwish

That night you wore wires
and rough cotton, demanded
lipstick, a mirror and

an audience--the artifact
of suicide, neither perpetrator
nor rescued diva.

You became taboo. No one
wanted to look in your eyes
or stand too close.

You shrank when you knew,
costumed for pity
in penitential black.

You'd survived, hadn't you?
Was no one glad? What
was wrong with people?

What was wrong with you?
What made you practice death
like a cosmetic makeover?

You no longer speak to me,
but I saw you tonight,
sleek in a white dress,

conversation ebbing as
you passed through the expense
of a restaurant,

your next husband waiting
at a table. It was as if I knew
nothing, had been nothing

but a place to park the gurney
while you recovered, whereas
you, a pearl prised

from moving meat and shell,
glowed singly, in a perfect
sphere of glamour.

© 2000 by Suellen Luwish

Suellen Luwish lives in Austin, Texas. Her poetry, short stories and articles have appeared in Penumbra, The Drummer, Focus, Seneca Review, Nerve Cowboy, Chiron Review and various websites. She is a regular contributor to Möbius, Penny Dreadful and Songs of Innocence. She has twice been nominated for The Pushcart Prize, and her short story, "Pretty Enough" is scheduled to appear in Shadow Writers Anthology 2.