Sunday, November 20, 2011

Embalmer's Lament

Bucket of dirty blood
bleached memories
that mop the floor
I’m manic depressive
over the dim hours
to your touch.

Upon the cold slab
chills rattle the spine
arterial injection making
faint eyes water
but I don't dare
spell out your fate
tell you that.

Silence upon the super glued lips
secured mandible suture
semi macue
and thus, you will speak no more
about those daring events
that delivered your death
two slugs to the stomach
one in the chest
upon a Halloween night burglary
gone mischievously wrong.

Sixteen years to nothing
trocar stab to the guts
aspiration of emotion
pumped up high
stitch the crime scene closed
naked in, naked out
eye caps seal
the upward stare
imprison the windows to the soul
rattled remorse stalks
the vanishing dreams
of the grieving
nowhere never looked so glamorous
in the rubbery pallor
of your stoic presentation.

I made a paycheck this afternoon
dropping the guts of the autopsied
into a bright red bucket
splashed with a hint of cavity fluid
stirred but not shaken
for the perfect martini of preservation
sipped not before a lifetime
that brushed up awful close
against the finality of your stillness
silent door bell,
like a dog whistle,
Dr. Death on the front porch
and, without further ado
I bleach mop the floors
cover you with a white sheet
wash my hands
wipe off my shoes
punch the clock
and walk out the door.

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