The Coroner
By Áine Lynam
Watch as my hand twitches away
for the first time in years.
On the job, nothing shocks you anymore.
The sallow faces of cadavers blend after so
Long.
Heart attacks, choking on toys,
Young, old,
There is no difference.
I open their stomachs all the same.
But it is only now I falter
When do I pull the sheet off?
I knew him,
I loved him once.
I once played with his warm, nimble hands that were always so quick to hold and grip.
I once had soft, vanilla lips smash against mine, I once felt the nip of teeth, in supposed jest and in hindsight, contempt.
Oh, how he changed!
The years were rightfully cruel.
A bloated, yellowed corpse, far past his expiration date.
I dare not lift his eyelids, I cannot imagine the empty glare would be any different in death than in life.
Yet, as I look at him, at whom we've both become,
I can't help but think of who will do this job for me.
Who will tend to me, dissect me, see things only reserved for my most promised lovers?
Who will examine me at my most vulnerable and invincible?
I think, as a final act of cruelty, God would appoint a stranger.
They only see you for the dry, rigid meat you become.
They do not kiss your knuckles and name you theirs to be irrevocably loved.
They do not ask about your dreams or your hopes, tell you that you are everything.
In a morbid (and perhaps narcissistic) way,
I've given him more consideration than he'd usually get from most.
Unprofessional and unsanitary, I slip off my glove and hold his hand.
I'm ashamed to admit how long we stayed like this.
I wash my hands and get to work.
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