Autopsy

I did an autopsy on myself today,
split skin from widow’s peak to navel,
laid open the skull like a sweet melon.
The scalpel was thin, sharp; there wasn’t much blood.
I ran my medical blue fingers over the gray mass that had been
the root of so much terrible beauty,
sampled a little of the ache and laid it aside in some paper
(for further examination).
I fingered stringy muscle and thick tissue rather disinterestedly,
rearranged organs and examined raw, tired windpipe.
The bone was whiter than I would’ve guessed. Cleaner.
And I removed what I’d eaten a few days ago from my dilapidated stomach sack.
(Soft tomatoes, avocado, slightly wilted salad greens).
I would’ve tried something more gourmet if I’d known.
Toenails were neatly trimmed, fingernails were filthy.
Cause of death: poetry, gossip, blasphemy.
Could’ve been anything.
Being in a room with myself for too long was starting to
bother me, so I quickly sewed myself back up. A messy job.
I wiped away the droplets of pus that bloomed like honey, replaced rumpled garments
and set myself back in the street again,
a little shaken with the addition of a few scars
that accentuated the old ones,
and minus a shred or two of curiosity.