The Anatomy Museum
A feotus squats on a glass bottom;
a dark teabag. Through the middle
a cruel fishhook is stabbed.
The card reads 1932, while an arm, more or less,
reaches up, a small fist punctuating the end.
In the main room the jars are bigger;
babies packed in like tumours
jostle in the bending light;
their soft hands press the glass,
skin crumpled like a roll neck jumper.
Twins, joined at the head, forever
stare into each other's brine-soaked eyes;
puffy fingers lingering together
their legs bent awkwardly
to accommodate them both.
Off, in a side room, an engorged vagina
glares across at a swollen penis.
Wrinkled and grey with salt
their elephantine discourse floats
in clouded saline; endlessly reserved.
At the back of the last room, hiding
on a bottom shelf, I find a whole human
head, lidless and split down the middle.
His blue eyes remind me of you,
his downey skin, the soft lips.
You are the one comfort in this place.
--
Here are some pictures, be warned they are not nice:
