The Autopsy
You hold her heart up like a piece of ripe fruit plucked from a living tree, or a gem whose facets you want to study in good light. But that heart is no more than an empty pump dissected out of her open chest, where the only wound visible is the one you made. A wound that does not bleed though the body may sigh and leak as you investigate, the mottled flesh remains inert, opaque. You may touch her, turn her, open her secret recesses and study all her parts with meticulous attention, but she will not notice, will not give you more than her absence, and there’s nothing left here nothing at all to tell you where she’s gone. Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy has always been a writer, but spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. Her work has appeared in various on line and print journals, including Gnarled Oak, Earth's Daughters, and Third Wednesday, and she has been a Pushcart nominee.
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The Ekphrastic Review
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January 2021
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