The Bloat

The Bloat

Three days in and the abdomen begins to swell,
the bacteria that once served the living now compel
the gut to feast upon itself, the gases building pressure
against the dermis, tight as a balloon of leisure

gone grotesque, the methane and the hydrogen sulfide
pushing at the seams of what was once a man with pride,
and the bloating is the body becoming its own dirigible,
a swollen monument to the perishable.

The skin goes marbled green, the veins a roadmap of the rot,
the tongue protruding from the swollen face, a blood clot
of the purple-black variety pushing past the teeth,
and the eyes are pressurized from something pushing underneath.

The smell arrives before the visual confirms the worst,
the sweetness of the putrefaction, sickly, cursed,
a candy-store corruption that the nose will never purge,
and the bloat continues expanding on its posthumous surge.

The bloat, the body inflating with its own decay.
The bloat, the gut bacteria having their buffet.
The body is a party and the bacteria are the guests,
and the bloat is the after-hours when the host comes to rest.

They found the body on day five.
The belt had split.
The shirt was taut as a drum.
The face was unrecognizable.
Just the swelling and the smile.