CADAVERS
- Mar 7
- 1 min read
By Savannah Smyth
She lay on the slab,
White sheets hitched up like a skirt,
One red eye, pink as the morning,
Interlocked with mine as I
wiped the pus from her petticoat.
When I asked why she was naked,
Chest bare, chest broken- he said
‘The dead have a funny way of flirting.’
I averted my gaze as
I plunged my fingers into her chest,
Rooted around in ruby until I found it-
With her beaten heart in my hands I wondered,
How carelessly others had held it before me.
Spotted with black like mold,
It shivered at my touch
But the valves seemed to speak to me,
Spurting blood in morse code.
They whispered stories of cold lovers,
Ones that nipped at her like frost,
Carved out her insides like a pomegranate.
A forced spreading of seeds.
Some were kind but aloof, some were violent
But every time she sliced her heart into strips
And tied tourniquets around their wounds.
She said she would do it all again,
It was easy as breath,
Compared to the man she met after death.
She murmured his name
Soft as a splinter,
raised her hand
And pointed a finger.
I felt her spirit on my shoulder,
Let her enter through my palm,
We lunged towards him with
A fury you cannot embalm.
They may not believe me but that doesn’t matter.
That’s how I ended up with two cadavers.