Krupa Harishankar
Reflections from the anatomy lab
overlooking Central Park
Reluctant, the same green
light over that copse of trees
and sheet of lawn glares and
bends through the lifted-open
cage of ribs, branched veins,
and cragged spine. Exposed,
my hands appear on the gurney
as a child’s. The one acrossÂ
needled grass applauds small
palms, not distant, but sound
mutes here. Joy does not carry
heft like limbs of the corpse
before me. In layers of blue
latex, the uniform tint of a pond
rendered from afar–its depth
imprecise–I glove and delve
into the viscera, leaving this
abdomen a cavity. I wonder
what hands have touched you.