Theresa

Naked. Cold. Rotten.

It’s how we all end up.

No dignity, no shame,

because really - who cares?

Once it’s all over,

when all the air leaves us,

when those sacks in our chest deflate

one final time,

those vital bellows -

when they can’t inflate again,

well,

that (typical) rise and fall,

the rhythm of breathing,

the meter, the beat of life,

well,

it stops.

It all just stops.

 

I wonder what it sounded like

When you took that one last inhale,

exhale.

That final fucking futile breath

(the one before your lungs collapsed,

before they both caved in,

before they started to rot away

like wasted meat),

I wonder what that was like.

Was it shallow?

Or was it deep,

like the South China Sea?

Did you fill your chest

with as much of this world’s sweet air

as you could?

Did you know what was happening?

Was he still beating you?

Beating down on your chest,

with every rise and fall,

trying to cave you in?

Was he?

 

I remember the way you smelled

like rotting chicken

in industrial bins.

They put you in a cardboard box

with plastic wrap on top

(to minimise your stink)

and they asked me to go

and look at you (tradition).

But I couldn’t.

 

Your mother did, though.

You probably don’t want to know that.

But she did.

She looked into your casket,

A tissue held over her face,

And screamed.

 

They burned you after that.

It was a Monday morning.