Forensics
“What is
the sequence of decomposition
of the human body?” the bespectacled man
in beige uniform asks. He writes it
on the board. He’s made his life of death.
“Look for
corneal cloudiness and tache noir.”
Out the window, the North Atlantic bangs
against the cove. The fake plastic railings
clatter like crepitus. We’re out of season.
I miss
sails in the harbor and a wind full
of scarves and flags on shore. It’s an hour
to dinner, still so much to learn. “How
can you tell if a corpse has been in water?”
A rookie
beside me looks half drowned.
He won’t be eating dinner. Another jokes
about the “living impaired,” and laughs
loud enough to prove that he’s alive.
On the
bluff, the town has raised a granite
fisherman, monument to the ones forensics
never got a chance to study. I’ll walk
the shingle and toss questions out to sea.
Copyright © 2000 Taylor Graham
