Heavy

Witnessing the remains of another soldier

offloaded at Camp Mirage is the contracted mortician

from McKinnon and Bowes, and the camp’s chief firefighter.

They don’t go to the morgue until after supper.

It’s dark and hot. The stars

are small and still.

On the tarmac a plane, its cargo discharged,

is docking for the night – isolated

lights out on the runway

reminiscent of ships at sea.

The mortician dabs at his head with the end of his tie,

then takes it off and stuffs it in his pocket

as he walks. There are sweat patches

on his armpits and crotch.

A truck is backed, beeping

into its bay. A chain link fence

rattles. Footsteps in the gravel

beyond the gate. The lights

go on in the morgue.

The mortician and the firefighter arrive

with the necessary paperwork, waiting

to be let in.

Then someone opens the door.

It’s infinitely heavy.

At first there’s a whirlwind

in their mouths. That silent,

vacuuming suck in which nothing

can survive – not words, not sound.

Then the knowledge

that what must have been a terrible violence

is somehow gone, inexplicably leaving

as though tossed on a shore –

this body.