Josh Seymour’s most recent poem to appear here was “Karma” (October 2017)

The Mortician
By Josh Seymour

It was another dreary night in the morgue—
far different from the beautiful morning
before I had to come into work. Now and then
someone will reach my slab that I feel
close to in some way or another. I look down
at tonight’s guest—a pretty blonde with
eyes glazed over from drowning in her tub
earlier that day. The detective assigned
to her case was waiting on my autopsy
findings so he could know if there were
any signs of foul play. As I open her up,
I mistakenly puncture one of the swollen
lungs and water starts to leak out slowly,
filling up the body cavity where her blood
once flowed. The veteran detective who had seen
far worse asked me to give him her stomach
contents so he could send them to the lab
for analysis. He surmised that if she was drugged,
it would lead to the possibility of a homicide
because she would have been easier to drown.
I cut her stomach lining open and collected
the materials inside when I notice a small
bit of blue cloth balled up in the ooze. When the
detective wasn’t looking, I took the cloth and slipped
it into my jacket pocket before handing him the jar.
As he left to take it to the lab, I pulled out the piece
of fabric and began to admire it. It was such a beautiful
blue—the same color as the shirt I had on under my
lab coat, which I now realized had a piece missing.
I suppose it must have ripped on one of her teeth
as I was holding her under, waiting for her
to stop thrashing and fighting for her life. I did
not feel sorry for her—hell I didn’t even know
her name until the detective told me. All I knew
was that it was her fault she died. I mean, it is
a cruel, cruel world out there and bad things
are bound to happen to decent people. She
shouldn’t have been bathing with her front
door unlocked. I smiled, picking up her
autopsy file so I could write down my official
finding—accidental drowning. Once I was done
admiring my handiwork, I opened the door to her
temporary room in my death hotel—a place
where I was familiar with many of my guests.