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.