To grieve over death
is one thing
But to smell death
To stand in the room
Where death goes once its dead
And see the eye cups
That are placed so the eyes don’t sink but seal
with adhesives.
The tools that cut the arteries
And the smell of the
formaldehyde that replaces
the blood that’s drained
And the small, clean blade that cuts the navel
And the garbage bag that reeks of
the stomach and intestines that get pumped out
Assortments of makeup that
Could cover bruises and burns
Or a blue or yellow face
All in this tiny, cold room
Where the lifeless go
When their vessel is wrought
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
To grieve over death
is one thing
But to smell death
To stand in the room
Where death goes once its dead
And see the eye cups
That are placed so the eyes don’t sink but seal
with adhesives.
The tools that cut the arteries
And the smell of the
formaldehyde that replaces
the blood that’s drained
And the small, clean blade that cuts the navel
And the garbage bag that reeks of
the stomach and intestines that get pumped out
Assortments of makeup that
Could cover bruises and burns
Or a blue or yellow face
All in this tiny, cold room
Where the lifeless go
When their vessel is wrought
