At the Bodies Exhibition with My Father
Poem by Traci Brimhall •
Photo by Claudia Fernandes
 Before it fails, he needs to see it, this thirsty red judge in his chest damning him. We find a torso isolated, glowing under the hot breath of the lights, and there rests the cruel organ. It nests between the lungs, twin pillows sighing as the muscles contract. He stands and stares with his fingertips balanced lightly as dragonflies on his chest. Memories move beneath his hand and he feels all he has asked of it: Niagra Falls, the steel mill, and every night he watched my mother sleeping. No wonder it is often the first part of us to die. He turns away, ready to leave, but in the birdcage of his ribs, the heart stutters as it sings. |