(observance) National Poetry Month Day 30

The maggots must remember
her smile for its warmth
or the unreal stillness of hands
accustomed to trembling;
perhaps they noticed
the tan pantsuit she wore to rest
(a choice only she
could have made), or the
fine coiffing of her hair,
somehow regal despite
the thinness of the strands;
or the parchment-white of her
eyelids, the lips flattened
to a serious line, the blush of
faint finality across her cheeks.
Surely,
the maggots must remember.