Full Corpse
‘96 Honda Civic found wrecked
wheels up, spinning
like feet pointing to the sky.
The grill torn loose,
kiss-wrapped around a maple.
You were dead, but not dead.
The hospital told us breathing
was your only sacrament.
There is no god in this church.
You fooled nobody.
Your mind was an effigy of dirt.
Doused with liquor, set with a cigarette.
It only smoldered.
Another funeral now.
We are trying not to laugh
in this crowdful of tears.
And the trying not to laugh
making it all the harder not to.
Maybe you will rise
and try not to laugh with us.
Belly burst, shoulders bouncing.
Full corpse.
©2022 Matthew Hutchins All rights reserved.
Matthew is a poet from Central Kentucky whose works have appeared in The Russel Creek Review, Anxious Poets Society, Pegasus, Sheila-Na-Gig, and The Poetry Cove Magazine. He occasionally posts journal entries to his Instagram @thebluegrasspoet and is currently enjoying reading the poems of Derrick C. Brown, Maggie Smith, and Brendan Constantine. Matthew lives in Carbondale, Illinois with his wife Haley and their two cats, Mishka and Kimchi.