Robert Breen

The body moves as if Jell-O in our hands.
Intense heat makes it so small.
What was once hair
shrivels tight to the skull.
The char falls, exposes
steamed white flesh and bone.
The sweet pungent odor
stings the nostrils.
You learn fast to mouth-breathe.

We place the fetal corpse
inside the red neoprene bag.
We tighten and buckle the leather straps.
The coroner places the body on the gurney.
The chaplain makes a sign

And what about the match?
The one who sets a fire.
Is commonly called the match. 


At the station,
I hose down the inside of the red burse.
And watch the spirit of a mother’s child,
Hold tight to the bars of the floor.