Rigor Mortis For Sure

RIGOR MORTIS FOR SURE

Death is at my side window;
a shadow of a woodpecker,
tapping at the side of my window pane.
I studied it a moment,
then gazed over to my husband
to wake him so that he could see
the shadow of a woodpecker.
When I saw him,
I nearly screamed.
His covers were pulled down and
his hands were clasped
across his pale, naked chest.
I followed his hands up
his body to his face.
The pasty flesh of his face
pulled down his bones,
dragging his eyes
into the palorous
contours of an
anorexic.

I looked back to the shadow.
The shadow still pecked at the window.
I looked down,
I looked up,
the shadow flew away.
I looked down.
Death's paint had not
chipped nor buckled
my husband's face.
I looked at the clock,
it read 5:30.
I could not cover him.
I could not roll over.
I could not stay next to him.
I left to make coffee.

What did this all mean?
Nothing.
Just early morning fog-eyes
not clearly adjusted.
Brain not functioning yet
still dreaming, I suppose.
I poured two cups,
carried them to our room.
I did not look at the
dreamed-up dead man
as I sat his coffee on his end table,
then stalked over to my side.
I sat down and slipped between the sheets,
and reached over for my coffee.
I took a sip, too hot.
I sat it back down.
I lit a cigarette.
The ashtray! Shit!
It was on his side.
Normally, I would just reach across him.
I still hadn't looked at him
since the woodpecker incident.
I got up, went to the living-room.
Astray in hand, I came back,
paranoia firmly
rooted.

The cigarette was gone,
the coffee was gone.
Only me and my dead husband.
How did I know he was
dead? I got brave. I looked
at him real fast. He didn't
move. Then a question came.
Who clasped his hands like that?
And if he were dead,
wouldn't they fall apart? No,
not if rigor mortis
had set in.
How long has he been dead?
How did he die?
Did someone kill him?
Why would they kill him and not me, too?
I got brave, again.
I poked his rib.
He didn't move, but, boy was he cold.
I pulled the blankets up to his chin.
He didn't stir.
I got even braver and pushed his head.
It didn't move, rigor mortis for sure.
I got out of bed,
went over to his side,
and brought his coffee back to bed with me.
I lit another cigarette.
I heard rustling around outside the bedroom.
I looked at the clock.
It read 6:00 a.m.
Time for everybody to get ready for school and work.
What should I tell the children?
Act ignorant for now.
I left the room, bringing my coffee
and cigarette with me.
I said my good mornings.
Finally, everyone was dressed,
fed, and grabbing lunch bags.
My daughter asked me where Daddy was.
I lied and told her that he left early.
What do you mean? She wanted to know, as
she was facing behind me
and could see the back of the house
and I was facing her and could
see through the picture window.
She told me to turn around.
I did.
There was my dead husband
standing behind me,
dressed,
and ready to go to work.
I poured him a cup of coffee.

Category:

Entertainment

Tags:

• poem
• poems
• poetry
• aurorablack
• death

[vanagons]

Could not stop laughing! Now was that a Freudian slip, or...

Really good piece, keep 'em coming!

[TheAuroraBlack]

@vanagons lol, i never thought of it that way...so no Fredian slip there....lol thanks for reading....

[benthejrporter]

Your birdies want to accompany you.

[Janetdawson2009]

you have a new fan :-)