an autopsy of the boys who have looked at me the way you do

Kristine Smith
Sep 2, 2018 · 1 min read

this body is a morgue.
under skin, bones are lined with corpses.
resting on frigid feet, a paltry detail
names scratched on off-white paper

when a mortician doesn’t do well with personification,
these letters turn into labels
what does a name mean to a mortician?
identification.
just a means to make sure they hand off the right skeleton
to whoever has to cut open the chest
after all, autopsies are not performed as a means to remind one
that this was once a living being-
after all,
a scalpel could really cut through any artery
and for someone who is accompanied by corpses
it is common knowledge that all of these shells are the same.

dead.

but death comes in a variety of genres
that is why autopsies are performed
it is our final serenade for the once-living-person
laying naked on the cold aluminum table
underneath cool-colored lights that reveal the veins running
along the body,
webs sown by particles and the passing of pluto
trail down to whatever truth is sitting just beneath the surface

and then you send the corpse away.
and it is no longer a corpse.

just a cause of death.

Kristine Smith

Written by

Poet and artist who studies the human brain and behavior.