The Rest Poem by Karen Corinne Herceg

My parents rest in drawers of steel,
within shiny, cushioned boxes
behind walls of stone.
Slid in like bakers' trays,
but they will not rise,
will not resurrect,
and it's for the best.
I couldn't withstand
a re-birth,
not for any of us.
We had our chance.
I'll go it alone now,
resting my head against
the cool marble,
the inscription of their names,
the chiseled dates
making impressions on my flesh