when applying nail polish
to the fingernails of a corpse
one should apply a single stroke
to each side of the nail bed
never requiring more than this
to prevent a clumpy appearance
the same technique is useful
on the fingers of a living person
Tag: Mortuary Science
once you’ve been a mortician
you never stop thinking
or dreaming
like one
.
beyond exposure
to the harshest chemicals
in existence
it is the psychological blitzkrieg
that is the true
occupational hazard
.
i am plagued by dreams
of having to embalm
my dead since i was 6 father
his features i set perfectly
but his hands won’t take the fluid
they are a sick yellowish color
with blackened fingernails
the fingers spread apart
ghoulishly
implying
death is always
grasping coldly toward us
.
as for the rest of humanity
my eyes see them
as softened fruit
about to spoil
.
each day
has become a discipline
in attempting
not to think
this way
.
as i find life
in all its pain and glory
to be worthwhile
and of
unfathomable beauty
.
i’ve heard
every bad
mortician joke
a thousand times
how’s business?
bet they’re dying to see you?
and at one time
it made me want
to pickle the comedian
on my embalming table
but i’ve long since
stopped caring about
editorial cringing
and the press conference of
pointed questions wielded
how did you endure that?
what made you want to be a funeral director?
is it harder when it’s a child?
i’ll bet you’ve seen it all, huh?
then come the requests for tabloid photos
gory details
of the suicide
car crash
IED
cancer
dead baby
homicide
blood tracing
brain spatter
on quilt patterns
the puddle of urine and shit
beneath every body
rigor mortis
livor mortis
(me not revealing
i don’t like massages
because
it reminds me of
rubbing the wet corpses to increase
drainage of blood
and circulation
of embalming fluid)
ever seen one with a boner?
do they cut the feet off to fit tall people in caskets?
the living are far more frightening than the dead
Réquiem ætérnam dona eis, Dómine,
et lux perpétua lúceat eis.
Requiéscant in pace. Amen.
how many dead bodies have you seen?
it doesn’t matter
the only one
of any consequence
was my father’s
Categories
still shots
there they go
darting in and out of cars
on I-75 doing 95mph
rain or shine
beneath artemis digital traffic signs
proclaiming it motorcycle season
share the road
“stupid shits”
i utter as i drive
i’m plagued every time i see a bike
ducati, indian, or harley
they all kill you the same
a photographic memory
and having been a mortician
doesn’t mix well
still shots in my mind
the smell of torn viscera and burn
you can’t download online
because a head wearing a helmet
can still be broken at the neck
turning it backwards on the body
a limb wearing leather
will quite easily sever from the torso
you’d be surprised how
the flesh of the nose
the lower jaw
and tongue
so willingly rip from the face
when asphalt is applied
so no,
you half drunk mid-life crisis
stumbling out of the mini-mall
sports bar
in your just for men beard dye
and
go vroom vroom costume
i’m not interested in a ride
as a mortician
the soft spoken woman in the black suit
i learned to counsel grieving families
all of whom had greatly differing needs
to the religious and overwrought
it took little more than reminding them
their loved one was now with god
to offer them consolation
but for the nonbelievers
i couldn’t just defer
to an intangible parent in the sky
i had to mean it
i had to know it
i had to give them something valid
looking into their eyes unwavering i would say,
“He will never again feel pain of any kind. Your peace begins there.”
it was true
it was fact
it was relevant
even for a baby who would never cry
they could touch the cold tranquility
smell the flowers surrounding the casket
knowing their dearly departed
had gone back to the stars
i remember these things
and i wonder how i’m still alive
being a working mother
takes on many odd forms
especially in the evening
there were nights when the twins were small
they would have to come to work with me
taken to the third floor playroom
of the victorian mansion funeral home
they would watch cartoons and play as knights storming castles
as i embalmed bodies in the catacombs
listening to lou reed and watching them on closed circuit tv
on occasion i would be focused on my sewing
when i would hear their screams running down the steps seeking me
my feet would fly to the casket elevator
it being faster than the grand staircase
and the surest way to my sons
my hands throwing open the brass gate
would lead my eyes to discover
i would not be alone for my ride upstairs
the ghost of whomever i was stitching
would apologize for causing all the shouting