Ben Egerton
FIVE BODIES
Watch:
               any moment the chalk
will summon its template
conjure up the core
from sleeping dust
will pull – from where? – wind
that disperses the finer grains
cleanses the lungs
                                    restores each corner
with pulsing breeze
like flinging open doors and windows
on a clear spring day.
He’ll spit out ferrous-tasting
blood as skin and bone re-fuse
he’ll stand
                    dress
                                fold the blade back
into its handle, slip it into his jacket
pocket
               then run his bruised right hand
through his regrown hair
                                                and go looking
for a bus home.
Something in the stiffness of new leather
both expects and resists the foot. Loose tongue,
looser still with laces hooped between
finger and thumb, peeled back and mouth agape –
a cavity from which no sound will come
but complaint, the twist and creak of animal skin
mirrored in black. Polishing was always the job
of the night before, though not here:
the pair, purchased at Robinson’s earlier
in the week, will now never feel the discipline
of horsehair and Kiwi. A last once-over
with wax and a strip of torn shirt enough.
All things pass, he said:
                                              pain from the carnation
needled onto his upper arm
                                                     irrational
fear of permanence as the first seeds
are sewn and sown
                                    a bruise budding across skin
worry that keeps him awake at night
                                                                       guilt
hanging like a pre-dawn mist.
                                                          Everything
slows and loudens when light goes
                                                                   amplified
in a chamber of nocturnal echo.
And how right he was:
                                             now, three days cut,
the bloom has already gone
                                                      petals
one by one
                    have quietly flickered
to the ground
                           and soon the stem will give.
               V. TRIPTYCH OF IMAGES TELLS A STORY OF SUICIDE, 1950
               1. Car parked in garage
Sooner or later someone will need to reverse
the car back out. The upholstery requires
scrubbing and the splatter above the door
will need a dab of peroxide then saltwater.
               2. Body on back seat of car
Up in the eaves the spiders had spun silk,
too much of it. A waste. Holes blown
through it catch only stale air
and shadows. Nothing sacred here.
               3. Detective
Framed in the rear window, the officer
has hands on hips, head cocked to one side,
cap and sunglasses on. A warm enough day
to unbutton his jacket but not to take it off.
               Additional details
Notes of orange blossom, jasmine,
and the scent of dust in the late-spring heat.
Ben Egerton is a poet from Wellington, New Zealand. He likes to write using traditional forms as well as experimenting with new ways to puts words on a page, often borrowing from the worlds of music and art. His words are readable in print and online in various New Zealand, Australian and British journals and newspapers.
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FIVE BODIES
I. CHALK OUTLINE DETAILING POSITION OF HEAD WITH KNIFE IN HAND, 1950
Watch:
               any moment the chalk
will summon its template
conjure up the core
from sleeping dust
will pull – from where? – wind
that disperses the finer grains
cleanses the lungs
                                    restores each corner
with pulsing breeze
like flinging open doors and windows
on a clear spring day.
He’ll spit out ferrous-tasting
blood as skin and bone re-fuse
he’ll stand
                    dress
                                fold the blade back
into its handle, slip it into his jacket
               then run his bruised right hand
through his regrown hair
                                                and go looking
for a bus home.
II. VICTIM’S FEET HANGING OFF THE BED, 1934
Something in the stiffness of new leather
both expects and resists the foot. Loose tongue,
looser still with laces hooped between
finger and thumb, peeled back and mouth agape –
a cavity from which no sound will come
but complaint, the twist and creak of animal skin
mirrored in black. Polishing was always the job
of the night before, though not here:
the pair, purchased at Robinson’s earlier
in the week, will now never feel the discipline
of horsehair and Kiwi. A last once-over
with wax and a strip of torn shirt enough.
III. MORGUE, MAN WITH FLORAL TATTOO, 1945
All things pass, he said:
                                              pain from the carnation
needled onto his upper arm
                                                     irrational
fear of permanence as the first seeds
are sewn and sown
                                    a bruise budding across skin
worry that keeps him awake at night
                                                                       guilt
hanging like a pre-dawn mist.
                                                          Everything
slows and loudens when light goes
                                                                   amplified
in a chamber of nocturnal echo.
And how right he was:
                                             now, three days cut,
the bloom has already gone
                                                      petals
one by one
                    have quietly flickered
to the ground
                           and soon the stem will give.
IV. SHOES, ARM AND KNIFE, 1950
God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.
                                                                       — Friedrich Nietzsche
Foreman of the jury Exhibit A: Close-up of the victim's left arm Exhibit B: Shoes Exhibit C: Knife | Just like in the movies, or church, the clerk brings out three items of evidence in resealable bags tagged with capital letters. He passes them one by one to me. Reflecting dutifully, I pass them back to the clerk who, in turn, administers each piece in similar fashion to the other jurors as a priest would the host and cup. The position of God's arm makes me think of the Sistine ceiling. Michelangelo had placed Adam naked and louche in Eden, used God’s outstretched right arm (the left embracing a cherub for companionship or stability) to impart the spark of life, or point a finger of blame.                                                   It was God's fault, swears Adam, but I was only following orders. That arm impotent now, flung out lifeless. The other one too, shrugged off by the angel, no longer anchor or counterweight. God’s fallen body flat against the floor, knife planted in his uncurled palm (to make it look like suicide, the prosecution allege) and God's arm and shirt sleeve painted with blood (burnt umber and cadmium red). At least the Adam in front of me had the decency to take his shoes off. It was holy ground, after all, despite the absence of a burning bush. Odd choice of murder weapon: blade barely three inches long, intricate carving on the hilt, a series of curves to accommodate four fingers, a curled pommel to stop the stiletto sliding in use. Ornate, yes, but perfect to slip into a belt or tuck between a deity’s ribs. Given half a chance any one of you would've done it, claims Adam. I've a mind to agree. But Adam has taken the fall, admitted complicity.                                           A woman at the back of court stands up, smiles and leaves. |
               V. TRIPTYCH OF IMAGES TELLS A STORY OF SUICIDE, 1950
               1. Car parked in garage
Sooner or later someone will need to reverse
the car back out. The upholstery requires
scrubbing and the splatter above the door
will need a dab of peroxide then saltwater.
               2. Body on back seat of car
Up in the eaves the spiders had spun silk,
too much of it. A waste. Holes blown
through it catch only stale air
and shadows. Nothing sacred here.
               3. Detective
Framed in the rear window, the officer
has hands on hips, head cocked to one side,
cap and sunglasses on. A warm enough day
to unbutton his jacket but not to take it off.
               Additional details
Notes of orange blossom, jasmine,
and the scent of dust in the late-spring heat.
A note on the poems:
In 2004, the Los Angeles Police Department released images from its archives of crime-scene photography. The titles of the poems in the Five Bodies sequence are taken from photographs from the LAPD archive. These images, and others, can be viewed online at http://fototeka.com/lapd/gallery.html, or in the book Scene of the Crime: Photographs from the LAPD Archive by Tim Wride (Harry N Adams, 2004).
Ben Egerton is a poet from Wellington, New Zealand. He likes to write using traditional forms as well as experimenting with new ways to puts words on a page, often borrowing from the worlds of music and art. His words are readable in print and online in various New Zealand, Australian and British journals and newspapers.
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