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