Poetry
Not His Job Ashley Duncan Some days the cemetery seems empty. full of families. Funeral after funeral. Day after day. This place becomes a house, Every waking minute patients wonder, if the next time they see their loved ones, will they be covered in dirt? A new person comes into the morgue at least once a day. Car crash, suicide, old age, or simply just to work. The saddest ones that come in are the babies, who never got to grow old. Nurses grieve, for the loss of the young ones who never made it home.
THE ILLUSTRATED HAND Rae Barto photography
The ones who were once parents, are no more. Their last look was without the machines. The medicines failed. But the parents believe they failed. The undertaker is now the caretaker that is not his job.
“This picture was taken in photography class last semester and put through filters to make it look like an old horror novel illustration.”
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KIOSK2021
