At dinner last night, my poet friend Elizabeth and I discussed cat anatomy and how cat owners have difficulty slicing open cat cadavers in anatomy class. I had a college roommate who majored in nursing. She also had two cats, and I asked if it bothered her to dissect dead cats. “No, because the ones we get come from the shelter. They’re nobody’s pet. At least this way they make a contribution to science. Their lives aren’t in vain.” For a couple of weeks she seemed to be just a touch more affectionate toward her own feline pets after her Anatomy class.
Elizabeth’s and my conversation shifted to leaving our bodies to science. “I think it would be kind of cool to donate my body,” she said.
“Are poets different inside?” I asked. “When we’re flayed open on the table, are our organs uniquely shaped? Brighter? Placed more randomly?”
She laughed, and told me I need to write a poem about it.
Suicidal poets might not be good anatomical subjects, especially those who jumped off buildings, or shot themselves.
Does a poet’s blood flow in metric patterns?
The bodies at the Bodies exhibit were rumored to be prisoners who allowed their corpses to be displayed. I wonder how intently these men and women were encouraged to become specimens.
Were any of the Bodies poets? Perhaps the ones whose nerves resembled threads for a brightly woven scarf.
This post has gotten weird. It’s Friday. It's Spring.
Happy Writing.
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