by g emil reutter
In hardened veins, the life that was you
coagulates, thickens with each missed
breath. The chill of death is upon you.
Bacteria feast on what is left of you and I
think what were you thinking when you said
don’t embalm me, no autopsy, just put me
in a box.
You were a dandy dresser, everything was just
right. As tough as you were, your nails were
always manicured. The undertaker is not happy
as no matter how much makeup he applies you
my old friend are green.
There you lay, a rotting corpse in a box, a nicely
dressed rotting corpse, but rotting with eyes
beginning to bulge and your swollen tongue
pressing against the stitched lips of your mouth.
As they carry you out to the hearse the smell of
rotten eggs wafts about. You wanted to be one
with nature when you departed, you have succeeded.
At the cemetery they lower you down, throw the dirt
on your box.
No one will know those final hours your body
vanishes, nails and hair fall out, the organs that
gave life liquefy and finally you swell and swell
bursting open, your skeleton resting in the muck
of what once was you.
g emil reutter is a
writer of poems and stories. He can be found at