He Was Not the First Dead Man I X-Rayed

in the Orlando Morgue that summer,
but he was the only one who ever turned
to face me as I lifted his arm for a side view,
trying to locate where the bullet had lodged.
His eyes shut, mouth slack, the dime-sized
hole in his ruined chest, the damp trail
of blood disappearing behind his back.
Shirtless, he still wore jeans and the front
pocket bulged with something—his wallet,
a phone, perhaps his prize for the night’s work.

I’d like to see what he saw in those last
moments, but I can’t. Instead, let me tell
you what he whispered to me in that dark room:
The open window like an invitation.
The promise of a jewelry box.
All of it for me.
He turned to leave through the same
window. Stunned by starlight, stunned
finally by what he couldn’t see.
Now here we are this Friday evening
and what’s left of him is staring back at me.