Have you ever touched a dead person?
The dead weight,
The clammy flesh.
The vomit crusted at the corners of her mouth,
The slight sour smell of it;
A mix of alcohol and drugs, I think they said.
She's been depressed, you see, and now she wasn't.
It had taken me a moment to realize she was
Dead Dead Dead Dead Dead
By then it was too late. I'd touched her skin.
And then what? Do you recoil?
No. No. There's no hurry.
Time has stopped.
No breath.
Dead dead dead dead dead.
The young woman in her bed.
The neighbor had gotten me, to see if she was okay.
She was up high on a bunk, and I was tall.
It was quiet.
She hadn't been heard from in several days.
The police came; I didn't have much to say.
She'd been planting flowers next to the driveway.
The neighbor lady had stopped her,
Told her she couldn't.
They asked me later if I wanted her room;
Bigger than mine, they said, and sunnier.
No thanks, I said. I hadn't known her.
She hadn't really spoken to me,
The few times I'd bumped into her.
The woman in her bed.
Dead dead dead dead dead.
I couldn't sleep there.
I'd be just fine
In my room across the hall.
Her mother
Was resigned
And sad.