By Hollie Dugas
Luminous wrists stretch the cage of my ribs
as far as it will go, fingers
probe into strings of vessels and flesh
as the scalpel strips a final whisper from the pulp.
How small and crepuscular I’ve become
in this final act of duty, light settling into bones,
all those slippery organs turning over like dead fish.
To think I was smiling in a yellow canoe
just a week ago, returning to a time as a little girl
when I used the word cadaver instead of cadet.
And today, vague as god; a gloved hand reaches
into the lagoon of my chest to touch a left ventricle,
searching for meaning, as I wait to be deposited
alongside others like me— our fleshy corpses
spoiling— as if someone were picking clementines.