Bottled

Gall stones large as hens’ eggs,
pale kidneys buoyant as seabirds.
Shriveled livers,

yet some so bloated they have features
as if the organ had drowned
imprinted by a sleeping face.

A fetus floating in a deeper space than
can be calculated by light years.

There is less purpose in preserving
the anatomy of death now.
The carnival wagons have gone away,
the fish-man in his tank;
the tuberous lungs of the malformed
free now from any glassy ogle.

However, in the medical museum
bottled body parts still wait
in their mason jars
for a hand to commence
death's long-prophesied unscrewing.

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