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When it is hauled – dissolving, hard to see as what was once a human being – out of the winter lake, they gape in silence: puffs of vapour stand for voices. Brought to shore, it lies upon a canvas sheet; the brightly painted rowing boat is dragged up on the freezing mud, and those with jobs to do leave in relief. The rest look anywhere but at their dripping catch, and wait until the surgeon comes to certify the thing is dead. It’s whisked away, laid out upon a table, stainless steel — and then the slicing and the sawing, and the grim performance of the modern haruspectic rite that seeks for omens, not of things to come, but of the past. Here, trapped within the folds of grey, a bullet’s found, striations mapped; upon the wrists and ankles, barely visible, abrasion marks. The organs bottled, tissues laid on slides, and dental work recorded... finally the closing, crudely stitched. The corpse is slid into a chilly drawer, the table’s sluiced, and there’s just time for sandwiches and tea before the next one’s wheeled along. Examining the entrails, though, brings no success; the days drag past, then weeks, and after months the clockwork of investigation slows, winds down, and other cases take its place. The human jetsam – missing certain bits and pieces – is reduced to smoke and ash, unmourned, unmarked. From water into air, then fire, and finally it’s laid in earth. ...
Peter J. King was active on the London poetry scene in the 1970s. Returning to poetry in 2013 after a break of about thirty years, he’s since been widely published in journals and anthologies. He also translates, mainly from modern Greek (with Andrea Christofidou) and German, writes short prose, and paints. His most recent poetry collection is "Ghost Webs" (The Calliope Script, 2022).
wisdomsbottompress.wordpress.com/peter-j-king
When it is hauled – dissolving, hard to see as what was once a human being – out of the winter lake, they gape in silence: puffs of vapour stand for voices. Brought to shore, it lies upon a canvas sheet; the brightly painted rowing boat is dragged up on the freezing mud, and those with jobs to do leave in relief. The rest look anywhere but at their dripping catch, and wait until the surgeon comes to certify the thing is dead. It’s whisked away, laid out upon a table, stainless steel — and then the slicing and the sawing, and the grim performance of the modern haruspectic rite that seeks for omens, not of things to come, but of the past. Here, trapped within the folds of grey, a bullet’s found, striations mapped; upon the wrists and ankles, barely visible, abrasion marks. The organs bottled, tissues laid on slides, and dental work recorded... finally the closing, crudely stitched. The corpse is slid into a chilly drawer, the table’s sluiced, and there’s just time for sandwiches and tea before the next one’s wheeled along. Examining the entrails, though, brings no success; the days drag past, then weeks, and after months the clockwork of investigation slows, winds down, and other cases take its place. The human jetsam – missing certain bits and pieces – is reduced to smoke and ash, unmourned, unmarked. From water into air, then fire, and finally it’s laid in earth. ...
Peter J. King was active on the London poetry scene in the 1970s. Returning to poetry in 2013 after a break of about thirty years, he’s since been widely published in journals and anthologies. He also translates, mainly from modern Greek (with Andrea Christofidou) and German, writes short prose, and paints. His most recent poetry collection is "Ghost Webs" (The Calliope Script, 2022).
wisdomsbottompress.wordpress.com/peter-j-king