11/04/2010
DEAD LAB
They look so real, I think, these bodies
drained of goop and dried for students to pull apart like leather clocks.
Skin peeled away and pinned open, the insides are sculpture. It's the stubble that troubles me.
Scrubbed up and blue-gloved, I can't resist the urge to hold my palms before me like surgeons I've seen on TV. As the heavy door swings shut from the air pressure used to ventilate the room, I spot
on the table a head sawed so clean the eyeball still rests in its socket like a tiny, plastic Easter egg emptied.
Each is, or was, elderlythe body's return to dust already underway. This woman's bones so frail, both femurs will break when we lift her from the table.
The saw's path offers a side-view: coccyx tucked in, tucked like a tailcurled like a finger relaxing... my grandmother's after she pushed toward me a playing card, all the red diamonds aligned with her knobby hand.
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OFFICIAL APOLOGY
Sorry I lied. I apologize for misleading you down the double-black-diamond slope of my deception. Sorry I pretended to love you, or pretended to try to love you.
And I'm sorry about making up the constellations. I am surprised you bought itmaybe pairs of stick figures doing it in impossible positions, but a bull? A queen on her throne? Come on.
I finally, officially apologize for the Bohpal chemical explosion it's a relief to let that go.
I am sorry I tricked you into thinking your favorite author was Sylvia Plath, sorry for allowing you to believe you actually understood her. Sorry I blended up your goldfish.
Do pardon me for making you happier than you'll ever be again, lighting up like a colonnade of Tikki torches the last eight months of your life. Please tell your next lover "discúlpame" for ruining his chances at being your best
fuck ever. I am sorry I wept wide-eyed as I watched you duck your head under the doorframe of the smallest room within me. I am sorry we are both in the same country.
I am sorry I addicted you to cigarettes, and I mildly regret that thirty some years from now you will wake in clean sheets, confused, with a plastic tube in your nose leading to a mechanic lung, its occasional whisper of sterile air the only sound in that soon-to-be-abandoned room.
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COAT OF PAINT It's cold, and my plastic jacket's zipper feels like stitches. I never thought I'd survive anywhere you spend most months wrapped like food. I miss the pretty near pure sunshine of the desert, but not the heat headaches. Before I left, an Albuquerque girl I wanted bought a big ol' car from some grandma. What a great 8-track! Of course it couldn't play anything we liked: We were learning how to love what was old. We painted its long doors yellow, looped a purple flower over its green hood. I predicted the house paint she picked wouldn't stick. We didn't make it. She drove that boat past me five years later, yellow and purple as a new bruise. Oops. I have gotten used to cold, but not rain. That car is gone. When I see it again, I will be dead. I hope its door open.
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YOUR FAVORITE ___ EVER
Please participate. I've made a carburetor of my apoplexy, and I've no idea what that means! It just occurred to me/us.
It probably means I have a pathological need to sound interesting. I want this to be
your favorite thing. Watch me toss this verb into the air! It will never come back down.
What a terrible beginning... Let's reset by saying mumbleberry mumbleberry mumbleberry. I am imagining your lips moving.
Let's instead see a horse, a plain brown one, galloping along its fence next to the highway empty except for us.
Roll the window down. What, as we fly by, should we shout out into the wind roaring in?
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W. Vandoren Wheeler was born in Las Cruces, New Mexico. He cracked his head open on the playground in the 2nd, 4th, and 6th grades; he began writing seriously in the 8th grade. He has published poems in H_ngM_n, Forklift, Swink, and other journals. He currently lives and teaches in Portland, Oregon, and is tweaking his manuscript The Accidentalist.
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