The Worst Day to Have an Autopsy
I examine him as he examines me.
I watch him note my height and weight,
then my age and sex. He hunts
for birthmarks, scars, tattoos,
blood, bruises, scratches, punctures,
defense wounds, bites, stings
and records them as well. Next,
he takes my fingerprints, just in case.
He checks my wedding gown
for anything that might seem peculiar:
droplets of blood, bodily fluids, hair.
He takes a photograph of me.
He takes an X-ray. He makes notes
of the condition of my bones. I do not
have anything foreign in my body,
except for fillings. He checks my teeth.
He calls for a nurse to stand at his side
while he checks my genital area.
He takes a vial of my blood, then cuts
off my gown with scissors. Another
photograph. Another syringe. This
time, he plunges it into my bladder
to extract urine. The nurse hands him
a scalpel and he makes a Y incision
from each clavicle, meeting between
my breasts, down to my pubic bone.
He spreads my skin and checks my ribs
before splitting my ribcage with shears.
He examines my lungs and my heart
from which he collects more blood.
Every organ is inspected. He checks
my intestines and my spleen. Then
he examines my eyes, noting my vessels.
He checks my skull for trauma before
removing the top of it to get to my brain.
He removes my brain and places it
on a scale. He keeps samples of each
organ and my tissue, then stuffs
my insides back in my body and sews
me up. He puts the top of my skull
back in place and staples it together.
Then he staples the Y and wipes my
body down before the mortician
transports me and sews my mouth
shut, my vagina shut, my rectum shut.
My peripheral arteries are kept intact
for the pumping of embalming fluid.
There are no rituals beyond that.
No natron or amulets, no prayers or
words of magic written on linen strips,
no palm wine or alum, no unguent
or beeswax, no bitumen or alabaster,
no perfume or cinnamon, no cassia
or henna, no juniper berries or lichen,
no onions or resins, no spices or sawdust,
no cloves or wild honey, no obsidian
or amber gum, no food or lists, no
wood pitch or wood tar, no ka or ba,
no akh, no double. I am not a queen being
mummified. I am a bride being prepared
for the most memorable day of my life.
• • •
Thomas Locicero’s poems have appeared on all seven continents in such literary magazines as The Satirist, The Pangolin Review, Roanoke Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Bindweed Magazine, Antarctica Journal, BoomerLitMag, Hobart, and vox poetica, among others. He resides in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma.