Cold, Cold Case

S. T. Eleu

I have memories of my death

fleeting engrams

of a fanatic
and a blade

of blood
on a new dress shirt

of fear and pain

of pain

as I awake
to live again

brought back as a clone
by a copycat killer
with the mind to recast the terror of his idol
his muse, his anti-human

slice by precise
slice

* * * * * * * * * *

memories I have of my second death

as I awake
anew from naught in a hospital

a room
populated by doctors and detectives
weaving through machines
I don’t recognize

* * * * * * * * * *

as the days amass
I learn
this time
I was brought back to life by a DA
with the proprietary rights to my DNA
and with the difficult task of solving
both of my murders

the recent clonicide

and a hundred-year cold
cold case

* * * * * * * * * *

as the days amass

I learn

of somatic cell nuclear transfer and enucleated eggs
of surrogate pods and accelerated gestation
of shortened, restored, and adaptive telomeres
and ethics

ethics

though
not one lab coat or city hall clip-on-tie or
sanctified pair of overalls thinks to ask
what I think

to ask

after all
I am but property

a state of being
I’m growing to know
all too well

* * * * * * * * * *

two badges enter my room
one stops at the foot of my bed, notepad in hand
the other steps closer, introduces himself

Detective José Cabrera

he shakes my hand with the smokiest eyes
this side of the universe

damn

I want to help . . . I do
but I feel flat

unattached

as if the pieces of the puzzle don’t match
the picture on the box

as if the telomeres weren’t the only things
shortchanged with each successive clone

it doesn’t seem to be a deal breaker, though
and the detectives press on

what were you doing during the morning
of the first murder

when did you begin to suspect
you were in danger

what did the first killer say to you

any accents or regional words

where did the second killer take you

was it the same location as the first

why were you in a city
over two hundred miles from your home

do you think someone from your family
was involved, in any way

any detail will help
no matter how inconsequential

do you want something to drink

I answer what I can
and they leave, but not before
Detective Cabrera looks back at me

really looks back at me

* * * * * * * * * *

a psychologist enters the room
and suggests I undergo hypnosis
to conjure the first killer
so they can better understand the second

I agree
and am sent by Dr. Reeves
to sleep with the enemy

echoes become images
images reality

their calm voice guides me
to the time and place in question

a bartender with green eyes
his smile inviting

his words sweet, his hands strong
his home sparse

his tone threatening
his force paralyzing

the soothing voice returns
to settle my heart rate

the murderer’s face freezes, realizes
this is not his construct

anger
demands to be released

the soothing voice pushes back
with an if/then scenario

if you answer
we leave and never return

his responses are quick
and reveal a most disturbing profile

a bell rings
I return to the land of the living

* * * * * * * * * *

in the ensuing weeks

detectives follow leads
and bodies

doctors explain the nature
of transitory lifeforms

survival
is two months and change
then cellular degradation
and end of function

though, research is ongoing

* * * * * * * * * *

I am weak in my final moments
but not so weak so as not to be able to smile
when Detective Cabrera pops into my room
and gives me

the glorious news: copycat killer caught!

I fade
but remember Dr. Reeves’ visualization technique
on how to go out on my own terms

peach pie and butter pecan ice cream

Ella Fitzgerald’s voice

World Series: White Sox trouncing the Cubs
1906, 2032, 2033, 2034, 2069, . . .

World Cup 2046: Guatemala in a shoot out over France

The Matrix: Neo and Morpheus in philosophical discourse

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
And the great star . . .

José Cabrera, at my door, tie loosened, bottle of wine
midnight

* * * * * * * * * *

I awake, yet again, and am greeted
first by the cheery faces of a team of doctors
who had solved the degradation problem
then by the unmistakable smile of a DA
in the middle of election season

I am the key witness
in the trial of the century

* * * * * * * * * *

all players in attendance

defendant one recently cloned

defendant two recently recaptured
(a story in and of itself)

the joinder proceeds quickly
the evidence incontrovertible

the jury returns

the judge speaks

sentences are earned, never handed out
and thanks to technology
the heinous nature of your crimes
will receive their due consequence

multiple life sentences
that can now be served not concurrently
but in their deserved entirety

lifetime after cloned lifetime after
cloned lifetime after . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

the convicteds’ heads housed in jars
placed on nondescript shelves
in a virtual prison construct

rechargeable batteries set
lights turned out

and all for the taxpayer
no more than the cost
of a day old donut

* * * * * * * * * *

I smile for the first time
in a very, very long time

it seems I owe
some soon-to-be Nobel Prize winning doctors
a drink

and a certain soon-to-be promoted detective
owes me, if not a drink
a date

if not a date
a lifetime

The Science

This poem is inspired by recent trends in the fields of cloning and forensic pathology, making note of both advancements and limitations with an eye to what may become of the proposed tech in the near future. When I think of the current theme, Regeneration, the first thing that comes to mind is cloning on a scientific level. This being said, my poem also examines spirituality and sense of self in relation to the tech.

The Poet

Raised in Vegas then exiled to Chicago, S. T. Eleu (they, them) has been a musician, teacher, and consummate Vulcan. Autism is their default universe, and though sparsely populated, is a glorious place to escape to, write in, and display an impressive collection of action figures. Their most recent publications were in Reed Magazine, American Diversity Report, and Aphelion Webzine.

Next poem: Darwin, on Patagonia's Shore by Philip W. Walsh