Laceration

Intestines, pancreas, lungs, splayed onto the street side
Tucked away in decomposing, cardboard coffin
The smell of rot, the squish, poking sticks
Is the mortician as careless with his scalpel as we were with tapering maple?

Money was for the dead, we didn’t care that are shoes were more sieve than show
The second definition of family: to hold a balmy hand until fingers cramp,
and the dark rings under your eyes like lines drawn in the mud.
Now every time I see a cross I look both ways
How much tragedy, omniscient narrator with the spot light, is enough to satisfy you?
“Don’t go out after eight. You don’t know who might be running the streets.”
Your reflection in their glossy eyes,
Will stain the sclera for years

All sins originate from then. That sweltering box, like a finger held over a lit match, they say the first three days are the hardest, the single drop of heroine, polluting gallons of drinking water. I can’t last these three days.
Can you deal the cards, from behind the dashboard?

Next to that hospital bed, sheets stained, nurse in the hedge maze of halls twiddling the phone cord, anxious for the ghouls response.
I stayed up with you until the sun sat in the center of the sky,
the spotlight for your final monologue.

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