The Body Lies
When the body won't give it up, offers no confessions, not from the torn limb not from the gash in the face, there is silence. Untruths unfold like falsehoods in the confession room, under the harsh light of penalty of perjury, and the body is not talking, except to say it cannot say exactly what happened when it came to meet its maker. Death was swift. Death was slow in coming. Death was a crush. A slam. A cord wrapped tightly around the neck. A thing so violent the loss of life betrays the body, or the body betrays the loss of life, and for a moment, questions hang in the air like the stench of the body discovered, uncovered. These questions the body s unwilling and unable to answer, coy and exposed as such, confused. The body protects itself. Why? What happened here? When the body won't give it up, offers no confessions who will ever really know?