When they unearthed my body, I was precious,
not for my pretty sapphires, which I lacked,
but because life lay still in me. Precautions
were taken to keep me there; I'd been locked,
this form in a coffin, but I'd been licked,
and pried open. Theirs was a loathsome practice,
I thought, burgling the dead to steal peace.
I'd rot soon enough without some precocious
anatomist cutting me up to display me on his lectern.
This man walked the length of my hand, punctured
my skin, hurried down to the quiet heart, located
my female parts. He emptied me like a pitcher,
a pretty little teapot, pretty as a picture.
His hands began to map a chart of living, looked
through me, learning, while my insides leaked out.
He arranged my organs like fruit in a dish, all pinkish,
sketched me quickly. Now my body lies likened
in a manuscript. I'd lived on. I'd lucked out.
What great things I could do besides perish.