Autopsy

Pale blue spores of rot stare at you

From the broken and bloody tips of

My fingernails, white mildew kissing

The translucent shells of my eyelids

Gummed and crusted with dried fluids. 

The reek of ammonia and embalming

Fluid assault your nasal passages, 

Barely masking the rotten and putrid

Scent of death that lingers in the air of 

The morgue, a blanket of decayed flesh. 

You trace the constellation of scars that

Line my thighs, a map of brutality, a tale

Of survival, decades of memories 

Preserved in the ink staining my skin, 

Secrets housed in their black outlines. 

You twine your fingers in the sea of spilled 

Locks fanning across the surgical table, 

My hair stiff and brittle between your 

Fingertips, as you choke back the flood

Of tears brimming, poised to overflow. 

Empty, hollow thoughts flit across your 

Mind as you ponder what dark things I 

Hid from you in life and what mysteries 

I now carry to the grave, deep into the 

Belly of the corpse-saturated Earth. 

Your fingers claw desperately at my 

Lifeless wooden flesh, as if you could 

Peel away my exterior, piece by piece, 

Releasing the truths only I knew, as if

Such an act could assuage your guilt. 

Audra Burwell