Omneya’s Mobile Morgue Omneya drives an old black motorcycle-hearse
left to her by a late aunt. She works the night shift dig crew at a cemetery in
Juarez. The only place she gets any peace and quiet is the worker’s lunchroom––stacked
with coffins, shelf of urns––where she’s goes to write letters to her father––all
the things she wanted to say before he became one more meat sandwich for Death’s
lunch. Omneya writes, “Your heart’s quarantine is as
harsh as long––till the red dye in my popcorn turns to blood.” Something lush
about stark cactus-agave dotted cemetery, gravestones on the empty dark
red-baked dirt, least of all these persistent cavity explosions that rock the
morgue. Mercenaries walk the streets, juggling human organs as they pass her
by. Dark rumors persist––13 of the deceased missing (driven away in
refrigerator truck). Her body covered in a harlequin of tattoos, there’s this
last sentence––“I am the tunnel and I am the light.” [Published
in The Ongoing Saga I Told My Daughter:
Expanded Edition. ©
2016 by Jim Cohn.] |
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