The Poet and the Mortician

THE POET AND THE MORTICIAN

by Deborah Johnstone

Content warning: Death and hard problems

The mortician is called in. The body of a celebrated poet lies before her. Jorgos. He only ever needed one name. He likely forgot his real name decades ago. He was deeply loved by so many, satisfied with the fanaticism his talent bestowed upon him. In death, the adoration escalates. It’s easy to see his departure as tragic. He died alone—on New Year’s Day, no less—still a young man at fifty. Of course, drug use is suspected. It is known that the poet regularly anesthetized himself against years of sorrow and desperation. Unrequited kindness plagued his heart—as it does for so many. Then, his heart stopped. That is all one need understand. 

The mortician draws the sheet down. His unblemished skin—cold and alabaster—reflects a hunger. She must remain composed. The funeral director and his assistant are watching closely to gauge her ability. It’ll reveal itself in her face. 

“Can you make him as he was in life?”

“Of course. Show me an image.”

A beautiful man, marked by sensitivity, fierce intellect, and the endless invasion of those who appropriated fragments of his fragile soul. 

“He’ll be ready for viewing tomorrow morning.” 

Confident, they leave her to the task.

Eva places her hand on his heart, and she weeps. Salty tears of grief for a man she never met in life, but whose poetic hinterland brought her great respite. If she could meet him—just once—she would tell him how he saved her life, how his words stirred her soul, saved her from an abyss. She would have said so much. And now… How to make this man the way he was? How to reflect the gravitas and joy and sorrow and yearning his fingers laid to paper? 

“It isn’t necessary…” the corpse whispers to her. 

She staggers and plummets to the floor. The smell of sweet pea pinches her nostrils as the poet struggles to sit up. His cheeks flush with warmth. His eyes flash, luminous. “One can never go backward,” he says. “You must always move on—try something new. Even if people disagree with your decision. What’s gone is gone. I’ve had to learn that the hard way.  Do you happen to have a cigarette?”

She gapes. This can’t be happening. He’s dead… It was confirmed. Could there have been a mistake? Her mind is sucked into a black hole as though she has been spun outside the universe and the molecules that make up her body no longer obey the laws of physics. Every hair on her body quivers as if shot with an electric current. She’s thrilled and terrified.

“I... I don’t smoke...”

“Just as well. Good for you—nasty habit. I’ve been trying to stop for years. It’s a bit cold in here, don’t you think?” 

Eva scrambles from the floor and runs to bring him a scarf. Nothing can happen to him—not now. She couldn’t live with herself if he relapsed. Jorgos sits still, naked, save the blue, checkered scarf Eva wraps around his neck. 

“I have to call the hospital, or an ambulance, or someone… or do something! I don’t know what... What to do… How do you feel?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I’m hungry.”

“Oh, of course, you must be starving! I’ll get you something to eat.” 

He shivers momentarily in the green-walled basement.  

“Oh, my God... You, poor, poor thing! Let me find you something warm to put on.” 

Eva is panic-stricken, unable to discern if what she is doing is right. She picks up an item of clothing and drops it to the floor, and then another, and another. Her mind is spinning so quickly, she can’t focus. Should she feed him or get a doctor? Can she even trust what’s happening is real? The truly dead were certainly easier to contend with. Now, she’s faced with the terrifying potential of the universe to marshal its photons and redistribute particles of energy for rebirth. But there’s no time to ponder the universe’s intention. Eva must make sure Jorgos is safe.

“Excuse me, but I’d rather not wear dead peoples’ clothing, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh, of course not! No, no, these are things that I’ve left here—my clothes—which will mostly be too small, but the hoodie will be fine, and I’ll give you a pair of my scrubs. Will that do?”

“Yes, thank you. You’re very kind. Most people would have just left me here with my privates hanging out.”

“Oh, no. That would never happen. We always cover the... the...”

“Dead.”

“The genitals…”

“Oh, right.”

I’m hallucinating, she thinks. It has happened before but nothing this extreme. It was just after she found out about her heart—or maybe before. Time has a funny way of rearranging itself when one is trying to keep track of it. 

The poet watches her, waiting. His presence is transcendent—not of Earth but perhaps the specter of a meteor hitting the Earth’s atmosphere and breaking apart. 

“My name is Eva.”

“Yes, I know. I’m Jorgos—you probably knew that.” He attempts to navigate the pant legs of the scrubs, but his joints are stiff. As he loses his balance, he collapses into her, his naked flesh against her stomach. Eva catches his hips, sits him back down, and eases his legs into the scrubs, all while noting the salt and pepper hair across his body. Eva’s gaze fell to his stomach, a tender pouch that hasn’t seen strenuous work nor excessive hunger in decades. She imagines the safety of pressing her belly to his flesh, enveloped in malleable skin that could accommodate her disquiet and quell the endless havoc the universe has dealt her.

“I’d really, really love some tandoori chicken.” He kisses her hand. 

His lips are full and soft and warm. He surely isn’t dead. That much is certain. He smiles and it’s radiant. Captivating. Her heart lightens. Every memory of anguish vanishes with his smile. 

“I’ll get you something to eat right away. Just let me call the director and let him know that... that you’re alive.”

“He won’t believe you.”

“Well... you’re here, sitting up, talking. Of course, he’ll believe me.”

Continued in Augur Magazine Issue 5.2...