Issue 171, Fall 2004
The traveling dissection tent is gone.
The stakes are pulled, the mason jars are cracked
and crusted with formaldehyde. The lawn
is a brown slab. I lie down. I am packed
with gauze and dusty air that lets me sail
inside myself, until I am alive,
my feet in scalpel-oil, the spicy trail
of fluid on the sheet.
We would arrive
at dusk, and stay, and watch.
Now I am cold.
I want the Lady in the Smock. She smelled
like buttermilk and almonds. Father told