The Coroner's Report
a poem
The coroner’s report stated that she had no alcohol in her system at least
that’s what he said
I never did see a written one
even though I was the only one to show any report to
Just a call on the phone
It’s funny he never mentioned
what else was not in her system
like heroin or cocaine or gluten because you know
I never asked what was there or not
I suppose he was trying to be kind
I guess he didn’t know
there were ten empty vodka bottles on the kitchen counter
Ten empty 26ers on the counter
She made it halfway through eleven
I mean that’s just gotta be a fucking record. Right?
You gotta be committed
No joke
Should’ve taken a picture and called Guinness
*
I assured the brother
Oh yes, cancer-related
a long time coming inevitable no alcohol in her system whatsoever
I used my best voice calm administrator practiced certain and knowing
I could hear him nod on the other end grateful
I waited for him to hang up first
I re-opened the folder still on my desk and marvelled once again
One point seven seven
They were like magic mystical powerful runes glyphs
and I understood them their depth and meaning
You must understand that woman had been dead for six days
*
I hung up I mean what do you say?
I know I didn’t say much
I didn’t say anything about the empties on the counter
Or the flies
And here’s the thing
it was winter
Winter
Freezing fresh and clean
Pure
Cold
But not in that one bedroom basement
It was a jungle swarm
a black hole that had somehow sucked every fly
from every corner known and unknown to a Fiesta
And they were still there
even though the party had long since departed
*
When I showed my wife the numbers and their implications
my name on the world stage consequential
she patted the sofa beside her
I sat as I always do courtly
She keeps me
not always humble but human
reminds me that dignity separates us from the lesser beasts
Besides
how could her family ever wash their hands of it?
*
I was allowed entrance at a specific time and date
hallway monitored for any removal of items from said residence
The door bulged as I cracked it open
unprepared I shouldered my way inside and
made my mouth a perceptible slit
made my eyes a squinty shield
pinched my nose tight
Automatically
Instinctively
The air writhed like a crazy porridge
I didn’t think to bring gloves
to search the usual places for the final rubber bits to stamp out her life
I admit I did not search hard or long
I really only wanted out of there
But the flies were contentedly busy
Die-hards
As I locked the door behind me
I noticed no flies followed
Not one
*
I’ll spare you the boring vitreous details
the necroptic rates of putrefaction
endogenous fermentation et cetera
the numbers triple-checked and my obvious
and retrospectively embarrassing glee
as I could only guess at the staggering
percentage at time of death
I will tell you that
we all could not measure the smell
There are no references even through thirty-one years
Even so
*
Part of me wanted to take that last bottle and finish it
No one knows that
And maybe I would have if I had brought gloves
About the Creator
Ward Norcutt
Playwright and poet.
My goal as a writer is to write thoughtful pieces of prose, poetry and stage plays. Hopefully, the end results are entertaining and engaging, with layers of meaning that make sense to the whole or a theme therein.
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