By Brakhage

Hollowed, the body upon a ta­ble; no verbs for
the inan­i­mate, a ci­cada shell.

And men in long coats have re­moved them;
peeled flesh — skull over face — sawn through bone
crack­ing wal­nuts for the meat in­side;

each soft and hid­den part ap­prised;
the in­side of your breast, the open boat
of your body sprayed clean of gristle;
blood pool­ing, num­bered.

Those sul­len limbs have
lost in­tegrity to knife, hose,
mi­cro­phone.

But who else holds the bod­ies of the dead;
thumbs the clayed flesh of your fa­ther;
that last and longest in­ti­macy?

No bet­ter lover has had
such in­dif­fer­ent hands.

Look.
It de­mands only,
the act of see­ing with one’s eyes.

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