Anatomy 35
November 7th, 2006 by

Anatomy 35, by Tricia Harding

Concentration
eludes me.
Talk of cadavers and hyperplasia
steers me eerily away from the classroom
with its flourescent lights
and too deep seats.
Instead I am holding his hand,
grown pudgy after days of excess fluid,
signs of organ
failure.
He grips back,
assuredly.
But, really, he doesn’t.
They have dimmed the lights.
Reverence?
I suppose.
They say it will be “soon.”
Why does it have to be at all?
I have no interest in cadavers.
Or hyperplasia.
I do not like the wooden seats.
I only want to hold his hand.
I want him to grip me back.

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