September 14, 2013

My Body, My Self: The Book of Me, Written by You: Prompt THREE




Body Count 

I love a murder mystery, but only if it’s Brit.
The grislier, the better—my dark side thrives on it.
It may start with a body, chucked in the woods somewhere,
Or tucked up in an old trunk, stuffed underneath the stair.

Along comes some old codger, with terrier on a lead
That sniffs out something sanguine—call coppers with great speed!
Then enters the detective, beleaguered by his woes,
While somewhere on the fringes, the killer surely goes.

All this sets me to thinking, not of the shot or stab;
The thing that I imagine, is me upon the slab.
If I were the first victim, what would my corpse reveal?
In coroner’s reporting, there’s naught I could conceal.

She’d start with my foundation: feet, singular she’d note.
The second from the big toe is “freaky”, and I quote.
Then moving up the carcass, so reaching the shin-bone,
He’d feel an indentation where back-swing shot was blown.

Poring around my privates with silver speculum,
She’d notice with a grimace the hemorrhoid on my bum.
Just inching up a short way to apex of the crack,
He’d spot the raised-mole trio ascending up my back.

Inside, upon inspection my pelvis would present
Some endometriosis—no children, heaven-sent.
An “innie”, not an “outie”, lint-free (I daily shower).
A waistline, getting thicker—no longer in youth’s flower.

Two breasts, still pert and perky, though flat out, I suspect
While prostrate on the table, awaiting the dissect.
A smallish mouth that’s gaping, exposing teeth with caps—
A long ago derailment, from bicycle, left gaps.

On upper lip, scar—faded, where suture once was sewn,
Then pulled with tiny scissors; (I did that on my own)!
In nostril, right, a septum that’s crooked as can be.
Eyes, ever astigmatic; night driving’s not for me.

Hair on my head is threaded with silver here and there,
But Sun-In keeps it burnished; a fresh cut gives it flair.
Deft, dainty hands, with fingers, tipped off with clean, clipped nails.
No evidence beneath them, save, fur strands from cat-tails.

What sort of keen conclusion can doc derive from all?
What wounds would I have suffered? What poison? Did I fall?
Of course the biggest puzzle, is who would want me gone?
Tune in for this poem’s sequel—conclusions will be drawn.



Kat Mortensen©2008


Time on My Hands III

In the mornings now,
my joints are sore;
I am fumble-fingered—
drop the toothbrush,
and hot pans from the oven.

In corners, the skin sags,
my clenched fist—
a toothless granny.

As if by magic, cracks form
at the tips of my clipped nails.
I chew them like a nervous child.

I find I need moisture more
and more,

but your hand still feels right
in mine.

Kat Mortensen©2012

3 comments:

  1. Oh my, for a moment I was incredibly happy that I wasn't reading this in the dark of night. Also, that this wasn't one of our ghostly tales while roasting marshmallows last night...such detail indeed. Besides that, wow, your impressive writing, so deeply visual.... I gasp at what the result of this (not real) but written so REAL death could be. Frosting on this grisly tale absolutely, are your closing words.

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  2. Kat - this is sensationally good. Well done you! Very creative. I love it. Loved the last line of the second poem. Very sweet and ditto for me at my end with my hubby.

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  3. Wow! This is so great! I also have an indentation on my shin bone! I tried to jump over a stone bench one snowy, icy day and when my foot slipped at the top of my arc, I smashed down on my back leg. Thanks for the reminder. ;-)

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