The body, slight and infinite, lies prone
on steel, too vivid relic of what came
and went, and will not come to life again--
The name it wore. The blood that stirred the bones.
Slow atoms drift apart in unseen waves,
reducing to procedure what was grief--
The dust that scatters from a withered leaf.
A silver scalpel waiting on a tray.
Now twilight tracks the minutes through still night,
And faded stars, the cooling neurons' light,
Unbound, their dueling lightning's charge released
into the earth, where soon all flesh must lay,
to join the mortal fulcrum's shattered sway--
A heady perfume rising in day's heat.
- FJ Doucet
FJ Doucet originally hails from southern Ontario, Canada and has lived in Europe, western Asia, and the Canadian arctic. Her work has previously been published in The Saving Banister anthology and Hamilton Arts and Letters magazine.