Into The Manner and Causation of The Death of Jane Doe.
Posted: 08 Jan 2018, 20:41
My name and number lifted
from taxpayer rolls, solid citizen
duly summoned as Coroner's Juror
The deputy said the call was recorded,
gave me the time
and place to report.
Im worried
and anxious. It's single digits
for a week; too cold for bodies.
The room is antiseptic, the coroner
Is grey. Six of us are sworn, an odd
half dozen here to complete death's business.
The bullet with her name slipped
skin, tissue, and cranial bone
sliced the jam of brain matter.
The deputy stands against the wall,
arms folded in front, stiff with
petty officiousness. The coroner
does not meet our eyes. He drones,
elucidates. We nod.
Right pupil normal. The other is
starred,its cornea resembling
the faint corona of a dying sun.
Victorians believed the retina
recorded the last view of the dead
and photohraphed the eyes
of Jack The Ripper's victims.
Did she know? Did she see it coming, was there any pain?
Her porcelain skin is mottled
with hues of lividity that match
her eye shadow. She could be
my daughter, was someone's
daughter.
I think of all the lips
she will never kiss,all the hours
not spent on the phone with boys,
then quickly jerk myself back,
being neither father
nor lover, but merely an instrument
in a sterile process of state.
The coroner probes the wound
with a small telescoping wand,
holds it up so we can guage
the depth of entry.
We are told
the bullet flattened on impact
by design to about the size of
a dime in the shape of a buzz saw
blade missing several teeth,
never meant to exit the body
but to sever main arteries,
make pulp of organs and cause
massive hemmorage.
The deputy coughs.
We are led to a room with six
chairs and a table. He
graciously drops coins
into the coffee machine asking
cream or sugar. My cup has
three aces and a jack.
Wrongful death the foreman asks?
We nod in silence and sign the form.
Duty done, we exit without a word. My breath forms ghost vapors in the frigid air.
They said there will be a check for $11 00
in about a month.
I am hoping when I get home, the three-day-old
lasagna in the fridge is still fresh enough.
from taxpayer rolls, solid citizen
duly summoned as Coroner's Juror
The deputy said the call was recorded,
gave me the time
and place to report.
Im worried
and anxious. It's single digits
for a week; too cold for bodies.
The room is antiseptic, the coroner
Is grey. Six of us are sworn, an odd
half dozen here to complete death's business.
The bullet with her name slipped
skin, tissue, and cranial bone
sliced the jam of brain matter.
The deputy stands against the wall,
arms folded in front, stiff with
petty officiousness. The coroner
does not meet our eyes. He drones,
elucidates. We nod.
Right pupil normal. The other is
starred,its cornea resembling
the faint corona of a dying sun.
Victorians believed the retina
recorded the last view of the dead
and photohraphed the eyes
of Jack The Ripper's victims.
Did she know? Did she see it coming, was there any pain?
Her porcelain skin is mottled
with hues of lividity that match
her eye shadow. She could be
my daughter, was someone's
daughter.
I think of all the lips
she will never kiss,all the hours
not spent on the phone with boys,
then quickly jerk myself back,
being neither father
nor lover, but merely an instrument
in a sterile process of state.
The coroner probes the wound
with a small telescoping wand,
holds it up so we can guage
the depth of entry.
We are told
the bullet flattened on impact
by design to about the size of
a dime in the shape of a buzz saw
blade missing several teeth,
never meant to exit the body
but to sever main arteries,
make pulp of organs and cause
massive hemmorage.
The deputy coughs.
We are led to a room with six
chairs and a table. He
graciously drops coins
into the coffee machine asking
cream or sugar. My cup has
three aces and a jack.
Wrongful death the foreman asks?
We nod in silence and sign the form.
Duty done, we exit without a word. My breath forms ghost vapors in the frigid air.
They said there will be a check for $11 00
in about a month.
I am hoping when I get home, the three-day-old
lasagna in the fridge is still fresh enough.
