print previewback JEFF WHITNEY
Vivisecting
The first out is the heart, small
gourd pulled from a wet pocket
of the body promised heaven
whose soul would come back
in a swell of insects or dry season
rain, who would become
for a night the moon’s dull glow.
Then the doctor, half-clothed,
holds up the dark glob shining
to bring on the ten thousand
stars like the blinking eyes of gods.
This is the madness we dance for
hoping like fire to learn
the world the way a sloth learns
a tree’s particular curve,
to come apart piece by
bloodied piece knowing nothing
goes back, to call home
the difficult weather, the severed
soul, the ball-to-glove thud
of figs in summer falling
each morning to mulch. 
